The Mind of a Scarecrow
by Amazon Wolf
Summary: After fleeing Gotham, Jonathan Crane awakens with a new sense of purpose. He remembers the past and begins to come to terms with his life in the present...in far more dangerous ways.
1. The Scarecrow

Oh the pain…the searing, white hot pain that sent streaks of light and blurred images into Doctor Jonathan Crane's mind. His head throbbed and hummed as sparks leapt in front of his eyes. He knew full well from where those sparks came. His eyes watered, and he couldn't help but utter a shriek of anguish as the black stallion he rode seemed to bob and weave through the foggy streets of the Narrows.

Jonathan's head lolled back in a daze, hanging awkwardly, and he watched through the eyes of his mask as the crumbling buildings around him seemed to break open, allowing the dim stars above to shine through the crevices. His face and fingers twitched with the electric pulses that were being sent into his body, and he continued to give moans of pain. His body slipped along the saddle with each gallop until finally he toppled over like a toy, knocked out-cold by the fall, but his foot still attached to the stirrup of the saddle. That's when everything went black.

In the next moment, Jonathan Crane found himself on his back, staring at the unblocked view of the starry night sky. He blinked, still trying to focus as dots and lights danced in his vision, and groped the soft earth beside him in an attempt to figure out his location. Another sharp pain ripped through him, this time from his hand, and he gave a muffled cry. Jonathan practically leapt to his feet, tearing the mask off with his uninjured hand, spinning around, desperately trying to figure out where he was.

Tall blue-green grasses swayed gently in the chilled night air. Jonathan could see the horse he had ridden a few feet away, grazing placidly on the grass until it realized its rider awoke and cast a glance at Jonathan.

The young man turned around once more and saw the twinkling skyline of Gotham in the south. Impossible. Had he been carried out all the way here? He looked down at his injured hand and grimaced. No wonder it hurt. He must have sprained his wrist, as it was swollen and turning a strange shade of purple. His back felt like someone had dragged sandpaper across it. If it hadn't been for his straightjacket, which he realized he was still wearing, Jonathan concluded his injuries could have probably been worse.

The young man eased himself to the ground and gingerly touched his face. He winced sorely as his fingers traced the burn that Rachel Dawes had given him, thanks to that stupid taser she had. Now that he had some sort of idea where he was, he took in his surroundings.

How had he gotten all the way out here? He must have fallen off the horse and caught his leg on the saddle before being dragged through the streets like a rag toy until he reached…wherever he was now. Jonathan craned his neck, despite his body's protest to sit still, and looked over his shoulder. There were small patches of land surrounding Gotham where small family farms or ranches set up, far from city life to tamper with it.

Though, by the looks of it, this field had long been abandoned. Weeds tore up the earth in several spots, poking their thorny heads above the tall grass. Rocks and stones littered the ground, ranging from pebble sizes to one nearly as big as Jonathan himself.

Jonathan could see a barn a ways away and gave a sigh. Perhaps, if his suspicions were correct and the field had been left to nature's whim, he could keep warm in that barn until daylight without the interference of nosy farmers.

"Get over here, you stupid horse…" Jonathan barked at the animal and yanked on its reigns. "No more food. Come on, don't think I'm gonna just lead you to the barn, now." Jonathan painfully placed one foot in the stirrup and hauled himself onto the horse. "Move."

The horse snorted in reply and began to walk at a dreary, slow pace. Jonathan gave an exasperated sigh and kicked his heels up and into the beast's body. That seemed to get its attention. The horse reared up and took off at a gallop, sending the dusty earth flying in his wake.

-------------------

By the looks of it, the barn had lost any purpose, as the roof was rotting away from rain and weather, and the smell of decayed hay stung at Jonathan's nose. But it was warmer than being outside. Jonathan allowed his animal companion to find a spot on the floor near the back of the barn to sleep. He, however, paced back and forth, listening to the dull thump his feet made on the dirt floor. Those idiots at the asylum had taken his shoes, he realized as he glanced down at his feet, warmed only by the dirty, muddy socks he now wore. Jonathan's blue eyes wandered aimlessly around the empty, cavernous room, and he gave a sigh.

"What now? If I return to Gotham, I'll be caught. If I run…well, I doubt I'll be on the run for long," He hissed. "So is this it? The end? Doctor Jonathan Crane, wiped from the memory of the citizens of Gotham?"

Jonathan growled and slammed his fists on a support beam. "It's not good enough! My purpose was to show these people the fear…the fear of their worst nightmares brought into the spectrum of reality!" His lips twitched as a smile crossed his face. "I was good at that…I was the puppetmaster…and they were my toys."

_**They need to see that.**_

"They need to remember." Jonathan looked to his left and let out a chuckle. "I can…I can make them remember!"

_**They need to remember the pain. Your nightmares were never fixed…**_

"I lived in agony every day!" Jonathan smiled, wrapping his bony knuckles around some pieces of rotted wood. "My life was hell on earth…"

_**You've earned a chance to show your true colors…**_

"I had to sit by while they worked and slaved…mocked…ridiculed…" Jonathan threw the pieces wood into the center of the room and heaved with deep breaths. The horse near the back of the barn paid no mind to the maniacal ranting of the man and simply turned the other way.

_**This will be our home.**_

"I will build a monument…a place to remember…a place to show those fools my power. They think they could lock me up and not suffer consequences?" Jonathan jabbed himself in the chest with his thumb and laughed a chilling, unearthly laugh. His breath hung before him in a foggy cloud as the dim moon rays above lit his pale face up like a ghost.

_**We will destroy Gotham, Jonathan. We will take back what is ours…**_

Jonathan smiled wider as a grim acceptance worked through his mind. "And I know just where to start…"

-------------------

Jonathan Crane sat upon his rotted wooden throne made of beams thrown together with no care or precision. Splinters stabbed into the air, and a black widow could be seen spinning a frail silk web within the twisted framework of the seat. The man's attire was just as shoddy; His once carefully-preened hair was longer and greasy, falling into his silvery-blue eyes, now filled with the vivid sights and hallucinations that only a madman can understand.

His body was no longer decorated with the rich spoils of his old life…expensive Italian shoes, a carefully pressed suit…His torso was now wrapped within a belted straightjacket, dingy and torn in several spots, and his orange jumper beneath the jacket had ripped up to his knees, tinged brown near the bottom from the days of rebuilding his new life in the dark recesses of an abandoned old barn on the outskirts of Gotham.

His body had also taken a change for the worse. His fair skin was paler, nearly white, and his thin arms and legs were knobby and long. His face beheld a pink scar running from cheekbone to his nose, lengthwise. His leg also suffered, due to the tumble he took off the horse he was riding that fateful night, all but crushed as he fell, but he couldn't feel the pain and continued to walk on it, and was now sporting a limp because of it.

Jonathan's head lolled back, over his shoulders, and his eyes staring blankly at the dilapidated ceiling above him.

King.

Jonathan's pink lips curled into an enigmatic smile and a dry chuckle escaped through them.

He was king. Lord of his territory. Master of his domain…and Master of Fear. Jonathan reached beside him and grabbed his 'scepter', the rough wooden handle of a rusted scythe. With this, he would strike fear into the heart of Gotham. At least until he could perfect his fear serum. That would require money. Which he didn't have. But he would…soon. Jonathan had to bite his lip in order to conceal the twisted smile on his face.

Yes.

With a mighty hand, he would strike down the disgusting slime of Gotham City, the trash and urchins that caused him to become who he was. The Scarecrow.

"And they will only fall because of their own mistakes," his voice purred in the darkness. He picked up his burlap mask in one hand and some twine and a thick needle in his other. Drawing his feet up and sitting awkwardly on the 'throne', he slowly began to sew the Scarecrow's mask, running fragile white fingers, numb from the prinpricks of the needle, over the eyeholes. "They think they drove me away…oh but little do they know. What goes around comes around my friends…" Jonathan's eyes focused on the mask's insane smile. "What goes around…comes around…"

It wouldn't take long before Jonathan began to ponder what to do. He was no longer the man of science he had been. He was now completely immersed in his own insanity; His thirst for retribution, and his hunger for the life he used to lead. He needed his toys, his fear gas, his lab, henchmen…his asylum. He needed her back.

But he was an enemy. And he was near the top of the list. If he wanted his plan to succeed…he would need to show the people of Gotham that Jonathan Crane…was not to be toyed with.

* * *

_Author's Note_: Hi guys! You probably won't remember me, as I have been on a tragically huge art slump lately. But for some reason, this story has decided to cling to my brain, and I just had to write. Sorry if Crane seems a bit...crazy. After reading a few stories on the scarecrow, I still see him as that quiet killer no one suspects. But, in other light, I also see him as a sociopathic psychopath...so it might be a little different from the Crane that the movie (and Cillian Murphy) portrayed.

I hope you enjoy the first chapter, and chapters to come. Amazon


	2. The Mother

_Jonathan's eyes burned with hot tears as he sprinted down the cracked sidewalk, tripping over his feet as he ran. His shoelaces were undone, making the simple task of running more complicated as they leapt up and bit into his legs like small stinging whips. _

_A dull pain shocked his body as a rather large rock hit his shoulder squarely, causing the wiry youngster to stumble forward. He threw his thin white hands out before him, breaking his fall only slightly as he hit the concrete with such a force that his glasses were thrown from his face, landing a few feet away with a sickening **crack!** The warm tears now streaming down his dirty cheeks seemed to just add to the hatred he already felt for himself for falling. Now there was no way to escape._

"_Hey guys! The Freak tripped over his big stupid feet and fell!"_

"_Maybe if his parents bought him better shoes, he wouldn't fall like a sack of flour!"_

"_Or like a sack of hay. SCARECROW!"_

_Jonathan gritted his teeth as he felt a rough hand latch onto his collar and yank him up from the ground. The boys behind him cawed loudly as he winced and tried to focus on their faces._

"_Hey, scarecrow…aww, what'smatter? Did you hurt yourself with that fall?" A sneering blonde boy cooed mockingly. Though he was half Jonathan's height, he was better built and stronger than Jonathan, the lanky bookworm. Jonathan realized this as soon as he felt a hard fist connect with his face and was flung back to the ground with a yelp, like a kicked dog. _

"_Guess he's not made of straw like we thought."_

"_He's still fun to punch."_

_Jonathan tasted the copper tang of blood in his mouth and sputtered out a soft plea for mercy. The boys behind him laughed and the blonde one grabbed Jonathan's hair, twisting his head in order to see his face bruised face._

"_What was that, Jon-boy? Talk a little louder…"_

"_P-please let…let me g-go," Jonathan mumbled through his bloodied lips, trembling. "P-please…"_

_The blonde boy smirked boyishly, a devilish look crossing his face. "How about I give you a head-start instead, Scarecrow? One…"_

_Jonathan didn't have to be told twice. He didn't care about picking up his glasses now. They were broken anyways. His twiggy arms managed to push him off the ground and he took off at a sprint once again, making sure he didn't trip. Not this time._

_He could hear the peals of laughter from his classmates growing softer and softer until there was no sound of them behind him. This is where Jonathan fell to all fours, his body racking with dry heaves and suffering from the pain emanating from the welts and scrapes everywhere. He hated them, he hated all of them. It wasn't his fault his mother didn't spend money on his clothes or appearance. That didn't mean he had to suffer because of **her** poverty. Jonathan sniffed, wiping his lips on his sleeve and taking in his blurry surroundings. The suburbs of Gotham City were just a slight upgrade from the Narrows. Lawns were just plots of dirt with patches of yellowed grass and weeds here and there. White homes were dirty and unkempt, growing brown with time. Fences were either non-existent or so dilapidated that they served no purpose._

_This was Jonathan's neighborhood, where he called home._

_The youth shuffled down the sidewalk, dragging his sore, worn feet through the trash and dirt of the street. He reached the crumbling cement walkway leading to his house and paused, staring up at the door. With a deep breath, he started up the creaky brown porch steps and threw open the rusted screen door._

_Usually he would have run up the stairs and to the safety of his room, but he could barely see and took too long as he blindly stumbled around, groping along the wall to find his way. His mother spotted him from the small living-room and gave a cry._

"_Jonathan Crane! You stop right there!"_

_The boy cringed and looked over at her, squinting in order to focus. He could see her figure rise from the couch and start towards him. She wore a white dress with salmon-colored polka dots. Her clothes were nice._

_Jonathan was truly his mother's son. The two shared a pale complexion, ice blue eyes, and dark brown hair. But that is where the similarities ended. _

_Jonathan's mother, Susanne, could care less for the son she lived with. She was pregnant at the age of 16, and she blamed Jonathan when her boyfriend left her (it just so happened he wasn't the father of the child, adding more hatred towards Jonathan. He was an inconvenience, and because of him, it was his fault that she was caught.)_

"_Jonathan Crane, what happened this time?" She barked, placing a rough hand on his shoulder, practically digging her newly manicured nails into his skin. "What did you do?"_

"_I didn't do anything…" Jonathan murmured and winced as the sharp sting of a slap jolted through his face, startling him. _

"_Don't you lie to me, boy. I told you…if you came back home with one more cut or bruise…" Her voice drifted off and her eyes narrowed. "Where are your glasses?" She grabbed his face, forcing him to look at her. "Did you lose them? What did you do with them?"_

"_They knocked them off my face." Jonathan hissed, his eyes narrowing. He could practically feel her hatred for him radiating into his body. _

"_You know we can't afford glasses each time you lose them."_

"_You can afford paying for Dave if **he** lost his glasses—" Jonathan received another hard slap to the face and bit his tongue. He was never to mention his mother's boyfriends. Especially in a critical way. But he couldn't help hating every single one._

"_Don't you dare speak to me about him like that again, Jonathan Crane. He's a good man. You'd be lucky to ever grow up to be HALF the man he is!" She pointed a thin finger up the worn wooden stairs and shoved the boy up. "Don't bother comin' for dinner. You stay up there and eat your books if you get hungry. Learn to appreciate your mother more…"_

_Jonathan's face was livid as he hurried up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door behind him. The boy fell back on his cot-like bed and felt his chest bob up and down with shallow, quick breaths. "She hates me. She hates me…" he breathed over and over again, each word bringing a bitter taste to his mouth. "And I hate you…you and everything about you, mother. I **hate** you…"_

_Jonathan looked at his window as he heard a soft flutter and glared. A small songbird had perched on the sill and stared into the room. It twittered at the young boy, as if trying to console him. Jonathan growled loudly and slammed his bony fists on the glass. The startled bird squalled and took off into the air, chirping in annoyance. Jonathan smiled grimly to himself and licked his swollen, split lip. Birds…the only things in this world that were afraid of him._

Jonathan's gait was slow and uneven, his steps drawn out at one interval, and rushed at the other. Twin blue eyes darted every-which-way, searching the crumbling, towering apartment-buildings around him for the one he needed…the one he needed to find.

Jonathan stopped in his tracks, peering up at a black stone building before him. Lifting his hand to his eyes, he saw an address scrawled messily on his palm and smiled thinly. This was the place. It had taken long enough to find…he needed to ask quite a few vagabonds and other "street people" for his information…but it would be soon worth it.

Jonathan looked around carefully before walking to the entrance. A small call-box was the only real form of technology in the building, save for the flickering bulb illuminating the doorway. Obviously it was one of the more "pricey" buildings in the Narrows. Jonathan pressed his finger to a buzzer on the box and waited patiently, continuously looking behind him.

Finally a voice came over the crackling intercom. "Yeah? Who is it?"

Jonathan licked his chapped lips and swallowed back his nervous voice. "Hello, Mother."

There was silence for a moment before the voice returned. "I said, who is this?"

"It's me…it's Jonathan."

More silence. Suddenly the voice shouted over the speakers, "Just what do you think you're doing here? What do you want?"

"I want to…to talk. Mother, please…it's cold out here. Let me come up and talk with you," Jonathan pleaded, staring at the call box. He cast a nervous glance behind him, and was satisfied when he saw no one had heard the woman's outburst. He waited, and waited…it felt like an eternity until he heard the buzz of the door being unlocked and quickly held it open. Slowly, ever so slowly, a slight grin crept over his face as he looked at the box and chuckled to himself. "Thank you, mother…"

Jonathan limped up a flight of stairs, peering suspiciously at the dark hallways or doorways, and finally reached the level he was looking for. He started down the old, moth-eaten hallway and paused as he noticed one door open with a dim light casting a shadowy human figure across the floor. He gathered himself as best he could and walked towards it, carefully avoiding the limping. As he neared, he could vaguely make out the figure of a woman standing in the doorway. Her dark brown hair was showing one or two white hairs, and was drawn up in a messy bun. Her face was starting to show the process of aging and hinted at fine forehead lines and crow's feet. The only thing that distinguished her from others like her was the look in her eyes. The same cold look she had passed to her son. A hateful, spiteful look that the devil himself shuddered at.

Jonathan stopped before the doorway and smiled down at the woman. "Hello mother…"

"What do you want?" She snapped immediately, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Jonathan chuckled and held up a bouquet of flowers—red and blue roses. She stared at them, trying to discern the meaning of this gesture, but hesitantly accepted them. "Get in."

"Of course," said the young man politely as he ducked into her tiny shack of an apartment. She disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, but soon returned without the flowers, perhaps leaving them in a vase of water. Or in the trash.

She looked surprised, if not a little peeved at the impromptu visit of her son, but she was still civil by offering him a seat.

Jonathan slumped onto the old couch, springs poking through the fabric and into his back, and folded his hands, resting them on his knee. "So, mother, how are you?"

"How the hell do you think I am? I'm worn out…tired, and I'm only 46," she barked, grabbing a pack of cigarettes off her rickety coffee table and sticking one in her mouth. Jonathan grimaced. She still hadn't broken that habit. The woman looked up at her son while she lit the cigarette and frowned at him. "Jonathan, what do you think you're doing here?"

Jonathan cocked his head, his smile fading as he stared at her. "What do you mean?"

"I haven't hide nor hair of you seen you since you left for college. That was eleven years ago. Eleven years where I got no word from you, let alone a visit. Are you in trouble with the law or something?"

Jonathan stared through his glasses and smirked. "Now what makes you say that?"

"Well just look at you!" She motioned to him with the cigarette's glowing red tip and grimaced. "You look like you've been living off the street for years! Your clothes are ratty, your hair is a mess…at least you learned to keep your glasses on your face." She scowled at him.

"Mother, times are hard and I just—"

"Ah, so that's it…" She leaned forward, still glaring at him. "You want money. Is that it? Well tough luck, but you aren't getting a penny. Not a penny, you hear me?"

Jonathan didn't flinch, but kept his stone cold gaze on her, unwavering. "I don't want your filthy money, mother. I wasn't here for that. I was here to see you."

"Yeah right. That's what the landlord says too." The woman took a long drag on her addiction and put it out by smashing the tip on the table. "Don't pretend with me, boy. You've gotten into some kind of trouble, and now you need to be bailed out. You'll never change, Jonathan. You'll never be something in life but a no good lazy son…" She gave him a once over and snorted. "And stop slouching, Jonathan…"

Jonathan clenched his fingers tighter as he stared at her. "You still can't help but criticize, can you, Mother?" Jonathan said calmly and evenly, but in a deadly quiet tone. "I come to spend time with you and you have to scold me."

"I'm not scolding. I'm just stating a fact!" She shouted, rising from her seat.

Jonathan was out of his seat too, but not from anger. He was grinning, his hair falling into his mad eyes. "Well here's a fact for you…"

The woman's eyebrows furrowed with confusion. Something stopped her from yelling at her son. Something she didn't see, nor did she react to, until it was too late. The metallic glint caught her eye first, followed by the stinging pain on her neck. She clutched her throat as a warm liquid ran down through her fingers, and she stared at Jonathan in horror as her vision grew fuzzy around the corners.

"You see, _mother_…as your son, it hurts me to see you suffer. You suffer because of me." He placed a hand on his chest and sighed. "Unfortunately _I_ am not going _anywhere_…so, why not be a good boy and put mother out of her misery?" He cocked his head again, watching her with his bewitching smile. "Oh…and…I don't slouch."

Jonathan looked on as the woman reached up, begging for her son to help with a silent terror in her eyes. He took in a deep breath and held up a sickle, smattered with burgundy blood. A little crude and harder to control than something more conventional…but it was all he had in the barn with him that he could conceal, and it had done its job. He proceeded to wipe the weapon on the couch. His eyes caught hers and, with a smile on his face, watched as the flame of life was snuffed from her body. Jonathan gave a chuckle, leaning down to kiss the cheek of the woman on the floor, and threw out his arms as if to encompass the room. "Sweet dreams, Mother. And sleep well Gotham. Tonight, you will suffer the reign…the reign only the Master of Fear can bring." He reached into his worn pocket and pulled out a handful of dry straw, then proceeded to scatter it over the body.

"It won't be hard for them to know…" He looked at the pool of blood around the woman and then at the wall. "They will know who I am."

-------------------

"Gotham City Police Department awoke today to the task of solving a grisly murder in the Narrows. Susanne Crane, 46, found dead in her home today.

Usually a common event in this area, this particular case seemed much more calculated, and much more sinister. Police won't admit to the possibility of a serial killer, but the finding of straw on the body resembles a sort of calling card seen by another strange prankster of Gotham…The Joker.

The most disturbing portion of this story is the message scrawled across the wall of the apartment of the victim, seemingly made from the victim's own blood. It read **_Happy Mother's Day_**, and, ironically, this murder did in fact take place on Mother's Day."

"Truly, this killer has a very sick, sick sense of humor…we can only hope this is the last murder of this type that we see."

* * *

_Author's Note_: Mwahaha...more action. And a little darker side to Scarecrow than you may have expected...always expect the unexpected because if you expect the expected...well then...uh. Nevermind.

Anywho...I forgot to put this in my first chapter, so I'll do it now. **I do not, nor have I ever, owned any Batman characters. Though I wish I did so I could have lots of money and fans and stuff. Thank you.**

Amazon.


	3. The Professor

"Snip…snip…snip…" Jonathan chanted to himself softly as he held a pair of scissors to his hair and trimmed the pieces in his fingertips. "I don't know why I never became a barber…it's not that tough."

As the last ribbon of hair fell to the floor, Jonathan scampered over to a pool of water left over from a recent storm. The barn let small droplets of water drip every so often into his home, which wasn't hard to imagine since the roof was full of holes anyways. His eyes peered hard at the muddy mirror and a smile of satisfaction grew on his face. Not half bad…it resembled his hair before being locked up in an asylum, and then living in near poverty for months. He turned on his heels and wandered to a small shopping bag hanging on the barn door. There was little food left…he would have to go out soon if he wanted to eat, which meant he needed a purpose to go outside…

Jonathan picked up a newspaper he had snatched from Gotham after a little midnight excursion last night to rob a convenient store for whatever little food he could find.

News of the murder of his mother seemed to die down quickly in Gotham, Jonathan concluded, as he held up a recent newspaper with little or no news on the tragedy. "She doesn't deserve the coverage anyways…" Jonathan muttered through his teeth, tossing the paper behind him. He was, of course, the prime suspect. Unfortunately, he left no leads…he was smart. Too smart for this particular police force. Though he wondered whether the batman was on the case…perhaps he would show more ingenuity then the idiotic Gotham City Police Department and _find_ Jonathan.

Jonathan slumped into his dilapidated chair and rubbed his chin in thought. Although still thin and pale, his body seemed to be getting stronger…of course, he couldn't fight. He had never learned that skill anyways. But he wouldn't have to if he could perfect his weaponized hallucinogens. He frowned in thought. He needed supplies desperately. If he could just get his hands on some chemicals…perhaps he needed to roam the street in search of some cheap drugs. Of course he needed something more than drugs to complete the fear toxin. He needed chemicals. He needed the thrill of returning to his one true passion. He needed to work, or he felt his mind would simply be left to the charge of his insane alter-ego. No, he knew where to go…he knew exactly what he had to do…

_**Yes Jonathan…go on. We need food, money, and supplies. You know your next target…now go…**_

-------------------

_Jonathan was fresh out of college with high grades, a glowing resume, and a job offer at his very own college as professor of psychology. _

_It was his dream, his only purpose. A chance to indulge not only himself, but others, with the workings of the human mind._

_It was his first day…the first day of a new chapter in his life. Professor Jonathan Crane. He liked the ring it had. As he adjusted his briefcase in one hand, and his glasses with the other, he marched up the college steps, ignoring the looks of confusion and curiosity given to him by the students around him. They couldn't be more than five or six years younger than him. Some of them seemed intrigued by the gangly-looking man in an old, worn suit. Others snickered as he passed and quickly whispered in their friend's ear about the weirdo walking by._

_Jonathan was still not used to being teased, especially since this was college, and he had hoped the little whelps had grown out of this habit, but he knew this would change once he got in his classroom, into his domain where he made the rules._

_Jonathan steered his way through the maze of onlookers and found his classroom quickly. "Room 313, Psychology," Jonathan reached out to grab the doorknob when he felt a large hand clamp onto his shoulder. _

"_Excuse me, but that class doesn't start for twenty more minutes…what are you doing?"_

_Jonathan craned his neck and looked up at a man, older than he, frowning in disapproval._

"_I'm sorry, sir. It seems you have me mistaken for a student…" Jonathan turned and held out his hand. "Professor Jonathan Crane, I…I'm teaching this class."_

_The man behind him looked wary. "You?"_

"_Yes sir. A-and you are?" Jonathan retracted his hand when the other man did not accept it, and quickly shoved it in his pocket._

"_Professor Frederick Hawthorne. I teach physiology, down the hall." He jerked his head to the side and frowned more. "I'm sorry…but aren't you a bit too…young to be teaching this class?"_

"_I may be young, but that doesn't mean I do not understand the subject, Mr. Hawthorne. I'm quite capable of teaching." _

_Frederick's eyes began to scan the young man up and down, taking in his pale, thin appearance, his old suit, and especially those cold, blue eyes. _

"_Of course. I shouldn't undermine intelligence by…appearance," Hawthorne said, wrinkling his nose with a little disdain for his new co-worker. Jonathan felt a cold chill run down his spine as the man turned on his heels. "Welcome to the staff of Gotham University, Professor Crane."_

_Jonathan glared at the man's head as it disappeared into a room down the hall. He already had a disliking of him. Of course, it would do little good to hold petty grudges, so Jonathan ignored his new "friend's" comments and entered his classroom quietly._

_---------_

"_Fear. The very thing we need to keep us alive. Webster's defines it as "an unpleasant often strong emotion caused by anticipation or awareness of danger". For, as long as man has been alive, there has been something he was afraid of. Of course, he used things like fire and weapons to drive away the demons and shadows lurking around them. We continue to share a common bond with our primitive ancestors."_

"_The hair on your arms and neck stand on end when fear overtakes you. A simple reaction of the body…attempting to deal with the adrenaline and chills you get…or perhaps a mechanism to intimidate the thing frightening you, much like a cat or dog may do when it gets angry."_

_Jonathan paced before the rows and rows of students, all fixated on him. Though he wasn't sure whether they were focused on his speech, or on his obviously "bizarre" looks._

"_There are many ways the body responds to fear. Your pulse quickens, adrenal glands pump the chemical adrenaline through your body, every nerve stands ready to receive an order, and your muscles prepare for something I assume most of you have heard of…fight or flight."_

_Jonathan's eyes scanned the faces of his class and smirked._

"_We will be studying the mind's response to fear, as well as the phobias that cause it. From common things like nyctophobia, arachnophobia, acrophobia and glossophobia to the more irrational fears…like agoraphobia, hydrophobia, and mysophobia…"_

_Jonathan paused and peered at one young man far in the back corner. He had his hand raised and a cocky look on his face._

"_Yes?" Jonathan pointed to him and folded his arms. "What is it?"_

"_Professor Crane, I think if we're going to get anywhere in this class, we should know what **you** are afraid of."_

"_Oh? And why is that?"_

"_Well, how can we take a teacher seriously if he teaches fear, yet doesn't disclose his own fears, if he has any." _

_The young man's friends stifled their laughter and continued to watch Crane._

_Jonathan peered harder at the student and cleared his throat, glancing down. "I myself am a bit claustrophobic…as well as automatonophobic…" He raised an eyebrow. "Is that sufficient for you?" What he said was, in part, mostly true. Jonathan was very put off by small closed quarters. It came from years of being shoved into lockers, sometimes until a teacher or the janitor walked by right as school was let out, or a few hours after it was over. As for being automatonophobic…he despised, not feared, the garden scarecrow put up to keep birds from the crops. He had been strung up on one of those poles during his childhood, only to bake in the sun for hours until the boys who did that to him cut him down and left him in the field. _

_Jonathan felt his pulse quicken and cleared his throat. "I said, is that **sufficient** enough information, sir, or would you like to disclose some things that make **you** afraid?"_

_The student's smile faded and a frown crossed his face. "No professor. That's all I wanted to know."_

"_Good. Then let's get on to our lesson."_

_---------_

_Jonathan sighed in exasperation as he pounded his hand against the rust bucket he called a car. He had forgotten his keys inside his classroom. He was so wrapped up in his class that everything else just seemed to slip his mind._

_Jonathan dropped his briefcase by his tire and walked placidly up the steps towards his class. It was late afternoon, most students gone to their dorms or to lunch, while others milled in for their classes. Jonathan reached his door soon and was ready to open it when he heard laughter. Loud guffawing laughter. Jonathan frowned, looking around and spotting the door to Hawthorne's class open. That's where it came from._

_He looked to his door, then back at the open one, and quietly stole off down the hall, standing idly by the door._

"_Did you see how he came to work? Absolutely horrendous!"_

"_He's too young to even bother coming here. He should use those lanky arms and legs for something more useful…"_

"_Like standing out in a field and scaring birds away," one voice cawed loudly and began to laugh. _

_Jonathan's cheeks grew hot and red as they spoke. He knew exactly who they were talking about._

"_Hawthorne, now, that's no way to treat him…he's a new professor…we were all in his shoes once."_

"_That scarecrow will never amount to a teacher. No one would take him seriously. **I** don't even take him seriously!"_

_That was enough. Jonathan had heard enough. He whipped around gritting his teeth with such hatred he was surprised they didn't crack under the pressure, and stormed back into his classroom to retrieve his keys. _

_Soon he was on his way home, his eyes narrowed on the street and his hands gripping the wheel so tight that his knuckles turned white. _

_No one took him seriously. He was too young, too tall, too skinny, too frail…nothing was right with him it seemed._

_Well, if they wanted a teacher to take seriously, then so be it. He would be taken seriously, even if it killed him._

-------------------

Frederick Hawthorn whistled a tune to himself as he exited his classroom at around nine at night. He needed to hurry back home as quickly as possible. It was his wife's birthday, and he had bought her a gift, but had no time to wrap it. Glancing at his pocket, he spotted the small black jewelry box and smiled. He hoped she would like it.

Hawthorn was no more than a few feet from his car when heard the most awful, animalistic screech ring through the night air. Snapping his neck to the left, he watched as a loud clatter and clopping of hooves started towards him. Soon, the figure of a practically emaciated black stallion came into view of the dim streetlamp, upon it a rider donned in dingy brown jacket over his equally mud-coated straightjacket. Before Hawthorn could react, the figure easily leapt off the horse's back and landed like a cat, slowly picking himself up and cocking his head at the professor.

"Well, well, well…if it isn't my old friend…Frederick Hawthorn."

Hawthorn was stunned and completely taken aback. Who was this person? How did they know his name?

"Don't look so surprised, Professor!" The mystery figure placed a hand on his chest and tilted his head to the other side. "Don't you know me?"

"I…I don't th-think so…a-are you o-one of my st-students?"

The figure laughed and made a clicking noise with his tongue. "Nope!" He wrenched off his mask and there stood the pale, thin man that was Jonathan Crane, his hair mussed and tangled in large clumps. "Surprise!" He grinned, throwing out his hands. "What? No hug?"

Hawthorn's mouth opened and closed as he struggled to speak. "Y-you? You're the man…you…I know you."

"Well I imagine so. Professor, or should I say _Doctor_, Jonathan Crane at your service…" Jonathan took a few steps forward, a smile on his face, and stretched out his hand. "You remember…I used to teach here."

"Yeah." Hawthorn seemed to be put at ease, despite the young man's strange appearance. "And…you got canned that very same year…"

"All water under the bridge, my friend…" Jonathan chuckled, waving his hands. "How have you been? Still working hard I see…" Jonathan glanced at the expensive car nearby and then back at Hawthorn. "It must be a good life."

"Y-yeah. Say, listen, Crane…I would love to chat, but I have some really important things to do…you think, maybe, we could talk some other time?" Hawthorn said, gingerly grasping Jonathan's hand and forcing a smile. It was like he was holding a dead fish instead of a human hand…cold, clammy, and bony.

"Oh?" without warning, Jonathan yanked hard on the man's arm and pulled him close. Hawthorn opened his mouth to protest, scowling. But that instant, the professor's eyes went wide as dinner plates, and his mouth hung open in horror. Jonathan's grin never faltered. "Gee, you know…I would really love to take you up on that offer, Hawthorn. _Unfortunately_, I don't think you are the kind of guy to keep promises. Just a thought…"

Jonathan released his grip and watched as the man collapsed to the ground on his back, a sharp wooden stake puncturing his body. He stared at Jonathan in terror and made soft sounds to find someone to help, but his body soon gave out and he was frozen in that spot, dead.

Jonathan sighed and shook his head. "I don't get it. They _always_ do that. I'm sorry Mr. Hawthorn, but if you don't mind, I need some new clothes. And I don't believe you need yours. Though, you can keep the shirt. There's a little stain on it…"

Jonathan turned the man over in order to wrench off his coat. He occasionally looked around, making sure no one had seen him. But it wouldn't matter. The smart people don't like to stick their noses where it doesn't belong.

As soon as Jonathan pulled on the man's coat, he simply pulled off the pants and shoes to match. Big enough to hide his other clothing underneath, Jonathan looked rather presentable. It reminded him of the days where he had worn designer suits and Italian leather shoes. Now he wore a straightjacket and horrid orange jumper.

Jonathan shook his head and began rummaging through the pockets. He touched something cold and metallic and smirked. He found what he was looking for. Keys. "Perfect."

Once inside the campus, Jonathan blended in perfectly. There were few people around to begin with, so it was easy to sneak into the Laboratory and into the supply closet to get what he needed. Jonathan had brought along a briefcase (courtesy of Mr. Hawthorn) and began to stuff as many needed supplies as he could, keeping a close eye and a sensitive ear to any noises outside the door. Once, he froze, hearing the squeaky wheel of the janitor's bucket as he rolled by, but soon resumed grabbing handfuls of chemicals, not caring about safety. When he ran out of briefcase space, he proceeded to stuff the bottles and canisters of liquids into his pockets and anywhere else he could fit them.

Jonathan dumped the keys in the trash and raced out of the building, sprinting down the street. He was amazed he hadn't been caught yet. It was hard to miss a gangly pale maniac with a suitcase full of chemicals running down the football field. Of course, the people of Gotham weren't known for their brightness, either. Jonathan spotted his transportation grazing on the grassy field near the parking lot. "Get over here you flea-bitten nag!" He hissed, careful not to trip over his feet as he ran towards the horse.

The horse perked up at his owner's insults and trotted over to him like a faithful creature, as if the hatred Jonathan had for it were the kindest and sweetest form of affection it had ever known.

Jonathan swung onto the horse's back and smiled, placing a spidery white hand on the horse's dusty, matted mane. "Our work here is done." Jonathan reached into the coat pocket to make sure he had gotten the right chemicals, but spotted a small black box instead. Jonathan furrowed his brow and curiously opened it.

The glittering diamond necklace sparkled in the starlight, as did the young man's eyes. Inside, a small card on the lining of the box made Jonathan nearly gag.

_To my dearest wife Karen. I don't think I could ever live without you…Happy Birthday._

The last line, however, made Jonathan laugh. "I don't think you could ever live without her either, Hawthorn. Good thing you're dead." He snatched the small card from inside the case before snapping it closed and shoved the box into his pocket again. "I don't think Mr. Hawthorne's wife will mourn the loss of her necklace more than the loss of dear Frederick. I think I'll keep this. You never know when the need for money shall arise…" He looked at the card, then at the body a few yards away, still illuminated by the light of the streetlamp. A queer smile curled on Jonathan's lips and he dismounted the horse. "Hmm…"

He hurried over and dropped the card on the man's forehead, then scattered some straw around the body. "This should be fun for the police to solve…"

Soon Jonathan was on the horse's back once more. He kicked the beast's sides, causing him to rear up and gallop down the dark streets of Gotham, spittle and foam flying from his lips.

* * *

_A/N_: So far my story has gotten a good amount of hits, seeing as it's been up for less than a week.

Thanks for taking the time to read my fic, guys. I have a fairly good idea of where the story is heading, but if you have any suggestions for future chapters, I wouldn't mind the help.

Much Love! ...Amazon...


	4. The Student

Jonathan hunched over the small bowl, breathing in whatever fumes it was giving off, and cackled. "A wonderful day it is, today. Wouldn't you say?"

_**You've finally done it, Jonathan. A bit crude…but I believe this will do.**_

"Of course it will!" He said haughtily to no one in particular but himself. "I am a man of science. I may have been dragged through the mud…but that doesn't mean my mind has gone with it. I still have the ability to create fear…"

_**How will you spread this toxin, Jonathan?**_

"I stole a spray bottle from the university…" Jonathan mumbled, as he held up what used to be a window-cleaner bottle, now void of its contents. "This will have to suffice until I obtain my old toxin canister…back at Arkham." Jonathan put on a frown of thought, pausing in his work.

_**Ah, you've thought of everything, now haven't you?**_

The young man blinked out of his stupor and nodded. "Indeed I have…" Jonathan hopped to his feet, pouring the contents of the bowl into the bottle. "Including a new outfit that will coordinate well with our mask."

_**Is that the little project I've seen you working on?**_

Jonathan scampered to a pile of clothes on the hay-covered floor as he struggled to close the bottle properly. "It's a good thing I learned sewing from mother…the only use she's ever served me." Jonathan placed the still ajar bottle on the floor and held up his clothes. His suit was definitely Hawthorn's, as one could tell by the skill of the tailor, but Jonathan mended it in a way to customize it to fit his thin frame.

He had stolen some gloves from a homeless man after fleeing the city for his far off hideaway. With the careful snip of the scissors, he cut the fingers off and was left with a clean pair of fingerless gloves. He kept Hawthorn's shoes polished, and even found the hat of a farmer that must have used the barn. He had accented the hat with a careful arrangement of hay to serve as the scarecrow's 'hair', since his would be covered by the mask. Carefully, he pulled his clothing on, smirking as he slowly held the mask up to his face. He never understood why people were so frightened of it.

Sure, under the effects of the gas, everything was frightening. But even when people were under no other influence…just pulling the mask over his face, letting his chilling blue eyes radiate the frozen coldness of the man that owned them, letting his lips curl with hatred or other emotions as the ever smiling mask grinned at his victim…the scarecrow seemed to frighten all under its power…

Jonathan liked this. He enjoyed quenching his thirst for fear and his lust for knowledge. To him, watching people scurry in terror was like being a small child fascinated by holding a magnifying glass over bugs and ants, watching as they sizzled under the blazing pinpoint of light.

Jonathan pulled the mask onto his face and once again meandered over to the pool of water. The burlap mask smiled at him, despite the stone-cold expression he wore beneath it. The rope hanging off the neck of the mask just added a more horrifying bit to his look. He fit the bill. He looked, and acted, just like he needed to. Jonathan Crane _was_ the scarecrow…

He reached down and picked up the crude spray bottle by his feet.

Now all he needed was someone to play with…

-------------------

"_Alright, alright…enough chatting with each other," Jonathan snapped, allowing his books to drop to his desk with a loud thud. "It's not like you haven't seen each other in ages. Miss Dratch, I would advise you to sit, but I see you have found a comfortable spot." Jonathan gave a disgusted look at the young woman as she sat on her boyfriend's lap, hugging his neck. She blushed at his comment and quickly took her seat beside the young man, hanging her head down._

_Jonathan was still bitter…no…livid…at what had happened yesterday. Hawthorn and the other teachers had no faith in him whatsoever. He wouldn't be taken seriously. _

'_Let's just see them eat their words…'_

"_Alright, class…if anyone retained any sort of information yesterday, I implore you to recall the point of this class."_

_One man in the back raised his hand. "Fear."_

"_Very good." Jonathan crossed behind his desk and cleared his throat. "Fear can be set off by many things. Spiders, snakes, the dark…all can trigger fears in an instant." Jonathan unlatched his briefcase and heard a collective murmur as he pulled out a metallic object. It was a gun._

"_I can tell, by your reactions, that most of you know what this is…" He held it up, pointing it at the ceiling. "A gun, as we know, can send a rush of fear into any one of us."_

"_But, Professor…we've seen plenty of guns. I don't think they show probable cause for fear…They're part of culture. Video games, movies…I can't honestly think of one form of media entertainment that doesn't mention a weapon of some sort."_

_Jonathan stared at the student, his eyebrows coming together in a sort of frown. He slowly stepped out from behind his desk and stood before the young man. "What is your name?"_

"_Daniel Stevens." _

"_Well, Mr. Stevens…perhaps you are correct. Merely seeing a gun may or may not trigger fear…" _

_Another collective gasp hissed through the classroom as Jonathan placed the barrel of the gun to the man's forehead, pulling the hammer back._

"_But does this trigger your fear now?"_

_Daniel's face grew pale, paler than even Jonathan's. He breathed slowly and nodded tentatively, afraid the slightest movement would cause the gun to fire._

_Jonathan grinned and pulled the gun away from his student. "Notice this gun, ladies and gentlemen…if I had pointed it to you, I'm sure you would have reacted like my friend Daniel did. You would have been afraid."_

"_However…I am also sure you would have been terrified even more if I had done this!" Jonathan whipped around and, with the same skill a marksman would have, pulled the trigger and watched as a vase on his desk shattered across the floor. _

_Several students screamed, some even shouted that this guy was crazy. But Jonathan calmly placed the weapon down and turned to his students with an emotionless face. _

"_So now you see? Now you see what a gun can do? It can **destroy**!" He shouted, picking up a shard of broken vase. "Before I fired, you could only hypothesize on the results. Will it jam, will he fire it, is the gun even loaded? After I fired, however, your thoughts were much different. You began to wonder at the destruction it caused…you began to think about how to react. Your body became a firsthand example of fight or flight: Whether to run from the man with the gun, to trust he wouldn't shoot at a student, or…" he hesitated, letting his fingers trail the length of the desk before eyeing his class, "Or whether to fight the man with the better weapon…"_

_He watched as the students, still watching with wide eyes, trembled in their seats. Daniel Stevens looked about ready to pass out. Miss Dratch was clinging to her boyfriend's arm pathetically._

_Wouldn't take him seriously? '**Let's just see them eat their words…Jonathan.**'_

-------------------

_Jonathan sat at his desk, gathering up the bits and pieces of ceramic left behind from his class earlier that day. He had decided to linger around after evening in order to make his classroom as orderly as possible, which included digging for the stray bullet that had been shot into the wall behind his desk. _

_Jonathan stooped slightly as he grabbed a long silver utensil he had borrowed from the chemistry lab and began to poke it into the small bullet hole in the plaster. 'I knew I should have used a blank…but they would have suspected…they needed true fear…'_

_Jonathan's neck snapped up as he heard the door to his room slam and blinked. The dean of Gotham University, Charles Meyer, looked furious as he started down the steps towards the young man. He had a snow white goatee to match his beard, and was short and chubby. He resembled a husky Colonel Sanders with thinner rimmed glasses and no white suit. But Charles Meyer was no man to cross with. He meant what he said, and said what he meant. So Jonathan knew something was wrong when the man reached the bottom of the stairs, seething._

"_Jonathan Crane…"_

"_Ah, Dean Meyer, what a pleasure, sir." Jonathan extended his hand, but received nothing more than a glare and grunt. Jonathan quickly pulled back his hand and frowned. "Is something wrong sir?"_

"_I'll say. I knew that, when I hired you, you would bring a welcome breath of air to this stuffy campus. A young professor, able to relate to his students. Not a madman waving around a gun!"_

_Jonathan blinked. "Wh-what? Sir…I…it was only to demonstrate—"_

"_You not only brought a weapon onto campus, let alone a classroom, but you threatened a **student** and fired off a live round!"_

"_How did you know it was a live round?"_

"_Why else would you be digging in a bullet hole in the wall?"_

_Jonathan fell silent and worried his bottom lip. He hesitantly looked up at the older man, looking as if he had been punched in the gut. "Dean Meyer…I only wished to demonstrate the reaction of fear…"_

"_Well, you demonstrated it alright. And it was your last demonstration." Jonathan's eyes grew wide as the older man jabbed his finger in his shoulder. "You're **fired**."_

"_N-No…please. Dean Meyer, please sir, I need this job! I need the money!" He never thought he would be caught begging again. But here he was, practically on his knees as his face grew sickly. "I need to keep this job!"_

"_You need to keep your head straight. I thought a psychology professor would be more responsible. You know these kids are sensitive enough as it is. Firing a gun and threatening—"_

"_I didn't threaten him!" _

"_You aimed a gun at his skull, Crane!" roared Meyer, once again silencing the man. "You are out of line, and you are no longer a part of this campus staff. Now get your bullet out of my wall and pack your things."_

_Jonathan was devastated and had to lean against his desk with a free arm as the other pushed his bangs away from his eyes in disbelief. This couldn't be happening. But it was. Jonathan looked up as the dean's steps grew faint and felt a stinging, boiling hatred rise from the very pit of his soul. There, trying hard not to be seen in the doorway, was Daniel Stevens. _

_Jonathan's fingers wrapped tightly around the edge of the desk and he did all he could in his power to suppress the urge to growl. _

_**He's the reason you were fired.**_

_Jonathan frowned, a puzzled look on his face. Who had said that? Hesitantly, the young man ignored the voice and turned his back to the door, resuming the excavation of the bullet._

_-------------------_

"_Did you hear? He got sacked because of that stunt he pulled with the gun."_

"_Good thing…He was a nutjob. Next thing you know, he'd bring a machete and start hacking us up!"_

_Daniel Stevens walked by the group of chattering students with his head hung shamefully low. It was his fault Jonathan was fired. But he didn't mean for it to happen. It just slipped out while he spoke with his friends as the dean was walking by. _

_Daniel felt terrible for costing the man his job. And hearing him plead and beg for mercy didn't ease his conscience any more. He had deprived Jonathan Crane of the one thing in life he valued…it was his fault._

_Daniel was walking past the open psychology door just as a man nearly collided into him. "Oh, s-sorry sir, I…" His voice trailed off as his eyes landed on the figure of Jonathan Crane. "P-Professor Crane…"_

"_No, not anymore…" Jonathan hissed, venom dripping from his voice even though his face held no sign of emotions. "I was gathering some things I hadn't picked up last night. Your new professor will be here soon." He glanced at his watch, then at the young man before him. "Excuse me, I have some business to attend to."_

_As Jonathan breezed by Daniel, the young man's mind began to work and he quietly called out to his once professor. Jonathan turned with a slight hint of hatred and spat out a curt, "What?"_

"_I…I'm sorry, Professor Crane. I didn't mean…for this to happen. You were a good professor…"_

_Jonathan let the words sink in, but as they did he felt a bitterness rise within him. "I was. Now I have no other purpose since that title was ripped away from me. Enjoy your academic studies while you can, Stevens…"_

_With that, Jonathan walked away. _

_It wasn't like he didn't wish to see the pain in Daniel's face once he had replied to his apology with the sweetness of a lemon. But he did, in fact, have business he needed to attend to. _

-------------------

"It seems he has done well in his life…" Jonathan murmured to himself as he reached the door of a cozy-looking home down in the suburbs of Gotham. Of course, looks were deceiving, thought Jonathan as a pretty woman came out of the home, shouted loudly at someone inside, and stormed down the driveway towards her car. As soon as the engine roared to life and she sped down the street, Jonathan came out of hiding and straightened himself, cocking his head to the side as he studied the home. "Of course, that doesn't mean life won't throw problems his way…"

Jonathan limped his way to the front door, dragging his injured foot along until he finally reached the porch and knocked loudly on the door. He had gotten quite ready for this meeting. He wore the suit taken from Hawthorn, and had managed to style his hair decently with just water from a bucket in the barn. Jonathan Crane looked like just another drunk businessman in a suit, ready to visit his friend and down a few more shots.

He knocked loudly again, this time cut short as the door flew open. "What do you want?" A man, obviously drunk (or showing early signs of it) peered at the thin pale man in his doorway. He looked familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on it…

"Mr. Stevens? Daniel Stevens?"

The man nodded stupidly and frowned at his visitor. "Yeah…what is it?"

"I…forgive me, you probably don't even recognize me." Jonathan put on a smile and cleared his throat. "Your old college professor…psychology? I…aimed the gun at your head?"

Daniel blinked in surprise and gawked at Jonathan. "P-professor Crane? You…the…I keep hearing…they're looking for you!" The man's broken words tumbled from his lips, and the pungent smell of alcohol ticked Jonathan's nose. He, however, kept a sullen face and shook his head.

"I…I know. The police seem to think I'm the one who killed my own mother," he said, glancing at Daniel in a feigned, hurt way. "How could they think such a thing? You know I wouldn't kill. If I was capable…don't you think I would have done so a few years back?"

Daniel winced at the memory and shook his head. "I know you would have. I cost you your job…I never forgave myself for that…" he slurred and opened the door wider. "Come in, sir."

_**Sir…he still calls you sir…still holds you in regard. Guilty conscience?**_

Jonathan took a seat on the man's couch and watched as Stevens fumbled to turn on a light switch.

"Daniel, was that your wife I saw a few moments ago?" Jonathan nodded casually to the driveway out the window, knowing full well of the tender subject he was bringing up, accentuated only by Daniel's doleful expression.

"Yeah…we had a little fight. She just needs to cool off."

Jonathan nodded demurely to himself and looked up as Daniel handed him a shot glass. "No, no. I don't drink."

_**Only fear will satisfy my thirst.**_

Daniel downed the shot himself and sank into a chair opposite his old professor. "So, what is it you wanted to talk about, Professor?"

"No need for formalities, Daniel. Jonathan will do."

"Uh…sure. Jonathan." The young man pursed his lips and glanced at the clock on the wall.

"Expecting something?" Daniel shook his head, but Jonathan knew exactly what he was doing. Daniel was still afraid of Jonathan…still afraid of the power he held and of the things he was capable of, according to the news. "Daniel, do you recall my last class…before I was fired?"

"How could I forget…" Daniel said guiltily.

Jonathan smiled toothily as he leaned forward in his seat. "Remember…fear is only what we perceive it to be. It's not half as scary as what it _can_ become."

Daniel frowned, quirking an eyebrow. "I know. The gun thing…I remember."

"Do you Daniel? Then you will recall what happened when I fired the gun."

"Everyone freaked."

Jonathan nodded once more and stood from his seat. "They did. They didn't understand that they were in completely safe hands…that I would never…ever turn a gun on a student. Well, you know what I mean." Jonathan motioned to Daniel with a smile. "But times have changed, Stevens. Times have gotten harder. I doubt myself…I doubt whether I should have done what I did…maybe I would be back at home, cozy, like this one. I'd have money, notoriety, and perhaps even the company of good, if not shallow, friends."

Daniel stared at Jonathan with increasing curiosity. "What do you mean? What…what ever happened to you, Jonathan?"

"I became a loner, Daniel. I shut others out. I indulged myself in my studies of psychology and fear. I learned one thing…"

Jonathan felt a little silly as he held up a spray bottle in the face of this man who could easily overpower him…if he hadn't been drunk.

"I learned that fear…is the only way to get my point across. You'll make a fine test subject, Daniel Stevens."

Jonathan let his finger fall to the spray bottle's "trigger" and pulled back, allowing his toxic cocktail to spray into the face of his newest plaything.

* * *

_A/N_: Some lines in the flashback (the whole gun-concept thing) was borrowed from '_Batman: Scarecrow Tales' _where they give a backstory on Jonathan and how he came to be who he was (most of my story is inspired by these snippets), so I must give credit where credit is due.

**:D Please Review. Thank ya! **

...Amazon...


	5. The Deal

Daniel Stevens stumbled to his feet, making odd gagging noises as his hand swept across the table by his chair, knocking over the lamp and telephone.

"Mr. Stevens…you're going to have to calm down…" Jonathan cooed, slowly taking out a rough burlap mask from his coat pocket. He quickly pulled the mask over his face and stared at Daniel in glee. "What's the matter, Daniel? Don't you recognize your old professor?"

Daniel let out a horrified yell, tripping over himself as he struggled to reach the kitchen. But Jonathan was too quick for the drunken, drugged young man. He stepped in the doorway and shoved Daniel over with a simple push. "Sit down before you hurt yourself."

As soon as Daniel hit the ground, Jonathan leapt atop him like a wild cat, pinning his arms down and making sure he was unable to break his grip. He looked vicious, ready to kill. "Oh…Danny…Danny, Danny…why did it have to come to this?"

Daniel couldn't see the man hidden behind the mask. Before him was the image of a decrepit, decaying creature that nightmares were made of. Maggots squirmed through the rotted holes in the mask, and the ever-grinning mouth seemed to crawl with black bugs and slimy little creatures.

Jonathan leaned closed to the man's face. "Look what you've done to me, Daniel! LOOK!" He roared, gripping the man's arms tighter. Daniel flailed futilely, trying to gather his wits about him as the insane man hovering over him continued to pin him down. "I used to live a good life…I used to have a good job. And do you know whose fault it is that I have become what I am?" Jonathan broke his tirade by giving a soft chuckle. "I'll give you one guess…"

Daniel's body shook uncontrollably as his chest heaved and his throat constricted. He felt lightheaded and sick, his vision growing white and air no longer passing into his lungs. He sucked in a breath, and convulsed. Jonathan grimaced as the man's lips leaked a foamy white substance in the corners of his mouth, and needed to swallow back a wave of nausea as Daniel gagged and retched loudly. He had forgotten what happened when stronger doses were used on subjects.

"Daniel…tell me what you see…"

"M-m-m…" Daniel muttered, his pupils growing small as his eyelids grew wider. "M-m-m-m…."

"Spit it out, Danny-boy!" Jonathan hissed, gripping the man's arm's so tight that it seemed he would break the skin at any moment.

"M-MONSTER!"

Jonathan Crane howled in delight as Daniel began to sob, tears streaming down his face. "**_Now you understand my dear boy! Look! Look upon the face of a monster…a face…that YOU created!_**"

Jonathan smiled beneath his mask as Daniel shook his head, whimpering and sputtering out broken phrases.

But something caught Jonathan's attention. Something reflected through the window and onto the wall beside him. Headlights. Daniel's wife had returned.

Jonathan growled. His work was interrupted. Again. No matter. He knew his toxin had worked, he thought to himself as he stood up from Daniel's trembling frame and raced out the back door in the kitchen.

As Jonathan crept silently along the bushes and reached up to jump over the fence, he heard a scream of horror from inside the home. Jonathan's lips curled into a smile. The smile only a madman possessed, and he stole off into the night.

-------------------

"It worked! The little whelp didn't know what he had coming to him…oh how I have longed to teach that brat a lesson."

_**Don't get too cocky Jonathan.**_

"And why not? I deserve a little appreciation every once in a while!" Jonathan shouted into the air as he hopped upon his creaky wooden 'throne' in the barn and threw out his hands. "Let the world see that I. Am. Back!"

_**A little excited are we?**_

Jonathan smirked, rubbing the rough burlap between his fingers and staring at it in a daze.

"Excitement doesn't begin to tell how I feel…"

-------------------

_Jonathan came home that night a defeated man. He lost his job, his self respect, and any hope of leaving the college with the same glowing reviews he had when he joined the staff. _

_Jonathan walked up the long, lonely walkway towards his home, a gothic-styled abode that displayed the young man's enjoyment of an older era dominated by fabulous superstitions and whimsical fancies. _

_He opened the door and sighed, hanging his coat on the coat rack before taking in his surroundings. Perhaps this would be the last time he ever saw his home unless he could pick up a job that would pay enough to fund his mortgage. Something odd, however, caught Jonathan's attention. The gold-orange light dancing across the books in his library indicated a fire crackling away in the fireplace. But Jonathan hadn't been home all day…who…_

_His eyes widened. No…it couldn't be. Was his house burning down! Jonathan sprinted down the hall and skidded to a stop in front of one of his many book cases. There, confined within the safety of the fireplace, roared a warm, cozy fire. Jonathan blinked in surprise, scratching his head, when a deep, calm voice addressed him._

"_Professor Jonathan Crane I presume…"_

_Jonathan let out a loud curse and stared at the chair back facing him. "Who's there?" His long fingers reached over to the desk on his left, slowly making their way to the first drawer._

"_No use, Professor. Your gun has been confiscated."_

_Jonathan swallowed and frowned. "Are…you a law enforcement agent?"_

_A deep chuckle was emitted from the seat once more. "You could say that."_

"_Don't play games with me…" Jonathan called out, a growing sense of anger and perhaps even fear running through his body. '**No Jonathan…fear is just an emotion used by the mind to—'**_ _Jonathan shook his head and scowled. "Just who are you?"_

_A figure rose from the seat, illuminated only by the amber light cast from the fireplace. He was an older gentleman, his light brown hair peppered with gray, as was his mustache and beard. He walked around his chair using a walking stick that made a distinct clacking sound on the wooden floorboard. Jonathan stiffened at the sight of an intruder, though he didn't look like a typical burglar. _

"_Who am I? Don't trouble yourself with trivial questions, Professor Crane. The better question is…what am I doing here?"_

_Jonathan's mouth open and closed, forming silent words, until finally he nodded. "Okay…what are you doing here?"_

"_I'm offering you a new start, Professor." The man extended his hand. "My associates call me Ducard. Henry Ducard."_

_Jonathan tentatively grabbed the man's hand. "I think you already know my name, Mr. Ducard. But a new life is hardly the answer I was looking for. What are you doing in my home?"_

_Ducard gave another quick nod. "All business I see. Well, Professor Crane—"_

"_No, not professor. Not anymore. Just Jonathan Crane will do…"_

"_Ah," Ducard's face hinted at a grin as he peered at Jonathan. "No longer a professor? Well that's good. It would be far too hard to say your name once I offer you a new job."_

"_Oh yeah?"_

"_Professor Doctor Jonathan Crane? Not at all easily rolled off the tongue."_

"_Doctor? Sir…I think you have me mistaken. I…I am no doctor." He placed a hand on his chest, then pointed outward in a sweeping motion towards a framed diploma on the wall. "I only graduated a few years ago…I'm no doctor…"_

"_Not a doctor of medicine, no. But , if you choose to accept my offer, you will be joining the staff of Arkham Asylum as head psychiatrist to the inmates."_

_Jonathan blinked. Arkham? It was like a dream come true. Sure, most people avoided Arkham like the plague. Its gloomy brick façade, however, only heightened Jonathan's curiosity for what lay behind it. Those men and women in their iron cells, padded with soft materials, were excellent cases to study for the young man. He looked up at Ducard in disbelief. "You couldn't get me a job there…unless you work there, could you?"_

_Ducard smiled as warmly as he could. "Dear boy, you leave that to me. So I take it you accept?"_

"_Only on one condition." Jonathan's eyes narrowed as he studied Ducard's face. "What's the catch? What's in it…for you?"_

_Jonathan wasn't stupid. He wouldn't accept anything unless he knew what he had to give in return._

"_The only 'catch', Doctor Crane, is that you assist me in my own dealings. You, in return, will be taught a great secret. A secret found," the older man held up a single blue flower, "in this small beauty. A secret I know you will enjoy…you study fear, do you not?"_

_Jonathan nodded, his eyes now transfixed on the poppy-like plant. It was blue, a bright blue hue, reflecting a golden light from the fireplace._

"_Well, what would you say if I told you that this small flower has the ability to send strong men to their knees in terror? When…properly prepared, of course." Jonathan looked up at Ducard. "I will show you the secret behind my flower, and you will help me by creating a chemical to synthetically reproduce the same effects."_

"_How…how will I know what to do? How would I know if it works?"_

_Ducard smiled once more. "You have quite a range of test subjects in the asylum…I'm sure you can use them to see the potency of the drug. You will, of course, need some way to stimulate the mind's fears. A photo, smell, color…anything…" Ducard waited as Jonathan seemed to calculate all this in his mind. "So what is your decision?"_

_Jonathan looked up, a startled, albeit hungry, look in his eye. A seat of power on the staff of Arkham. A chance to continue his fear studies. Unlimited supply of test subjects, it seemed. And more important…a chance to redeem his name. **Doctor** Jonathan Crane…_

"_I accept." Jonathan said almost immediately, his eyes lighting up with a strange gleam to them. He used to be a man of the law, a man of prestige and honor. Now he was sinking…he would sink lower than this over time and he knew it. But he wanted this recognition and power desperately._

"_Good." Ducard murmured and smiled. "Very good. Now, for your first assignment—"_

"_Already?" Jonathan frowned, but the look on Ducard's face indicated that he did not like being disrupted. "Sorry…please continue."_

"_As I was saying, your first assignment for this position is to pay a visit to Mr. Carmine Falcone. He is to be convinced, by any means, to allow our shipments of chemicals and drugs to be brought over in **his** shipments of drugs."_

_No one touches Falcone in this city, thought Crane. It's perfect. People couldn't catch him now. "He'll be down at a local restaurant in the Narrows at precisely 2p.m. I assume most people in town know where it is."_

"_Yeah, I know where it is." Jonathan knew little about the dark side of Gotham. But Ducard was right. Everyone knew where to find Falcone._

"_Good. I will see you tomorrow after the meeting with Falcone. You will go straight to Arkham and begin your job. Understood?"_

"_Understood."_

_Soon Jonathan was alone in his home, replaying the day's events in his head. He had been fired, then hired as the middleman between two very important people…Ducard and Falcone. Jonathan sank into his armchair in front of the fire, holding his chin as he thought deeply. So, this is what became of him now? He was a man working for criminals… _

_But it seems he didn't mind it so much._

_Jonathan had returned to the campus the next morning, only to run into the student that caused his troubles. Of course he lavished on the sarcasm to increase the boy's guilt, but Jonathan couldn't enjoy it. He had a lunch date with Carmine Falcone to uphold._

_-------------------_

"_Crane, right?" Jonathan winced as two burly bodyguards patted him down roughly. No gun, no wires, so the men shoved him into the seat across from Carmine. The Italian crime lord smirked as Jonathan adjusted his glasses and blinked at him. "Yeah, I gotta message sayin' yous needed to see me."_

"_Yes sir, Mr. Falcone," Jonathan said quietly, his face turning stony and unreadable. "I've been given orders to—"_

"_Whoa, hey…listn' here, princess. Carmine Falcone takes no orders from nobody. You got dat?"_

_Jonathan bristled at the man's tone, but kept his face still. "Yes sir, I understand completely. How can I put this then…" he laced his delicate white fingers together and placed them on the table. "An associate of mine has requested that he be able to transport some of his…goods…along with some drug shipments you're bringing in."_

_Falcone raised a cigar to his lips, looking completely uninterested in what Jonathan was saying. "So you wanna plant some of his crap with my shipments?" He took a long drag on his cigar and blew the smoke in Jonathan's face. "So what's in it for me, princess?"_

_Jonathan was starting to hate this man._

"_Name your price, Mr. Falcone."_

_Falcone chuckled, leaning into his seat. "My price, huh? Let's see…yeah, I gotta price. You tell your guy if he can cough up some money to pay for his half of da shipment, and if he can spring one ah my guys from da' joint…I'll help ship over da goods."_

_Jonathan thought for a moment, his eyes narrowing. How could he possibly fulfill this request? But Ducard had said…he said he needed to do whatever it takes to get Falcone to help. He would tell Ducard about the money, perhaps strike a deal with the mob boss. But then there was the trouble of getting Falcone's thug out of prison time. There were people that wanted to put his men behind bars…how would he be able to stop them?_

_Suddenly, a thought formed in Jonathan's mind. "Arkham."_

_Carmine pulled the cigar from his lips. "The nuthouse?"_

_Jonathan nodded, his face now showing slight traces of excitement. "My friend will be obtaining me a job at Arkham as head psychiatrist. If I am able to give your man a mental evaluation…" A smile curled across his features, sending chills down Falcone's spine. He didn't like the way this creep smiled. "I can get your guy out of jail and into my care. You can visit him as you please. And no one says no to Mr. Falcone. I'll make sure of that."_

_Falcone stared at the young man, trying to pry into that mind of his and see if what he was saying was true. "You make one slip up…"_

"_Mr. Falcone, I have learned my lessons with slip ups. Trust me. I won't make one." _

_Falcone let a grin grow lazily on his features and he waved his cigar in Jonathan's face. "You're a smart kid, Crane. Yeah. Alright. I'll help your friend. I'm guessin' you want somethin' too in return fer your services?" _

_Jonathan nodded. "I just want enough money to pay the bills, Mr. Falcone. No more, no less."_

_Falcone let this idea run around his mind and gave a nod. "Deal. I trust you, Crane. Don't make me lose dis trust…" He said as Jonathan rose from his seat and was escorted out by the two bodyguards. "You'd hate to see what happens to people who lose my trust…"_

_Jonathan caught the man's eye, setting his face in a stone-like look once more. "I don't want to know."_

_Carmine's lips curled into what looked like a smile as he leaned into his chair and stuck his cigar in his mouth. "Yes you do."_

* * *

_A/N_: Tried to use a little of my memory of the movie to do the scene between Carmine and Jonathan. So, I hope I got both their characters down and didn't mess up the little details.

Please read and review. Thanks!

...Amazon...


	6. The Broken

_Jonathan stood at the iron gates of Arkham. The young man looked at the imposing bars before him, placing a spidery white hand on the frozen steel, rusted in blotchy spots along the metal framework. He shivered a bit, the chill of metal sending a sharp sting through his palm. It was raining, but Jonathan was too awestruck to notice his hair and clothing getting damper by the second._

_Soon, however, he worked up the courage to start down the beaten stone walkway towards the main entrance of the building. He sucked in his breath as he reached the front door and pushed it open, coming face to face with the eerie darkness of a hallway decorated with an old, Victorian style-charm. The charm, however, dissipated when Jonathan heard an ear-splitting scream rip through the halls, reverberating off the walls and disappearing into the shadowy darkness. His grip tightened on his briefcase and he swallowed back a lump in his throat._

"_**Welcome to Hell, Jonathan Crane…**"_

Jonathan woke with a start, catching his breath and a ragged gasp and gripping the earth under his fingers. His eyes were wide, searching every dark crevice of the barn as he shuddered beneath his makeshift blanket…the straightjacket used to keep him 'safe' in Arkham. Jonathan reached up, running his hand through his greasy dark hair, and allowed his body to adjust to the shock until his heartbeat slowed.

Jonathan refused to believe he had nightmares. He, the master of fear, couldn't suffer from such childish delusions. But here he sat, in the darkness, blinking and holding back the shudders that threatened to shake his body.

All the memories of his past flooded into his mind as he placed a hand over his face. He remembered the afternoon he met Falcone. He recalled entering Arkham and receiving the first voice of confirmation to his new job. It wasn't like his nightmare. No. He had started up the staircase and entered the 'receptionist's' office. The man behind the desk stared at Jonathan, his eyes taking in the young man's pale, marble-like features and icy blue eyes rimmed with dark, full lashes. The receptionist smirked toothily and pressed a button, allowing the metal gate leading to the cells to open.

"_Welcome to Arkham, Doctor Crane."_

Jonathan smirked to himself and let his head hang between his knees, swaying from side to side. He was being ridiculous. Arkham was a place of pure delight for Jonathan. He grew to enjoy his life within the confines of his newest job. People knew who he worked for. Word spread fast. Thus, many of the nurses and attendees left him alone.

But as these memories flooded his mind, Jonathan always began to wonder…why it ever stopped. Why his wonderful life, his amazing new job (that he enjoyed more than anything else) had possibly turned him into a corrupt psychopath with the inkling to kill those who hurt him.

In the beginning, plans went smoothly. The first shipment of drugs came in fine. No interferences. Jonathan was given a sample of the blue flower Ducard had shown him and soon came up with a chemical compound that mimicked the effects. Even Ducard seemed quite impressed at his findings. Jonathan asked what the chemicals were for. Ducard said they were for Gotham.

Jonathan smiled. These men knew how to do business…these "League of Shadows" people that he was becoming acquainted to. Jonathan assumed that, with the threat of some kind of chemical warfare on their hands, Gotham City bureaucrats would fork over any amount of money to keep their city relatively safer.

Soon, as Jonathan became a familiar face in the asylum, he would sneak off into the basement, the lowest level in the building, and tinker with his chemicals. No one bothered him; no one could stop him even if they tried. He began to toy with the idea of testing it on a certain inmate that was giving the nurses some trouble. He offered to talk with the man, convincing the attendants that he would be fine, alone, and that's where he made his first, most grave mistake.

Locked in a room with a mentally unstable person was unsafe enough. But Jonathan, eager to test his newest batch of toxin, failed to remember that he would be breathing the same air his victim was, air that was now contaminated with a dangerous vapor of fear.

Horrible things happened. The man he was testing on began screaming and flailing, despite the fact he was strapped onto his bed. Jonathan watched in horror as the room seemed to shift and move under his feet. Shadows grew more defined, morphing into the nightmarish images of childhood tormentors. Jonathan pounded on the cell door, roaring and screeching to be let out immediately as the shadows came down upon him. The nurses only assumed he was frightened by the wild man in the cell. But as Jonathan tumbled from the room and scrambled to sit against a wall, they could see a different terror in his eyes.

People knew, that day, that something had changed in the young man. He rarely left his office, and if he did, he wouldn't bother a passing glance to others in the building. He would sometimes be caught talking to himself, though people thought perhaps he was just reviewing work out loud. Little did they know that the small dose of chemicals he inhaled had made him temporarily insane. It was such a small dose that the effects were minimal, but he hid it well. Even though his mind was slowly unwinding, that he could hear voices, and that shadows would occasionally dance around him in a horrific fashion…Jonathan could hide it well.

As weeks went by, Jonathan kept his promise with Falcone. He gave a false mental evaluation on the man being convicted and delivered his thug into the safety of Arkham. Perhaps 'safety' was not the best choice of words. Jonathan's unstable mind began to twist, and ideas formed in his head. What he had seen in the cell was just the beginning. He began working on something that would protect him from the experiments he would do. He needed something to represent himself. He chose the mask of a scarecrow…the perfect combination of poverty and fear. As well as the nickname the snot-faced children and his two-faced coworkers at work gave him.

Soon, his project was completed, and he would begin to wear this symbol with a sort of twisted pride. Soon, he began testing his chemicals on more of the inmates at the asylum…including Falcone's thug.

Soon, a pretty assistant DA began to stick her nose where it didn't belong.

Weeks, months, perhaps even a few years after he worked as Arkham's leading psychologist, he was called to testify at a hearing. A hearing of one of Gotham's most notorious serial killers at that time. Actually, he was more of an assassin. Zsasz, Victor Zsasz, also worked for Carmine Falcone. And Jonathan, in his agreement with the boss, testified that Zsasz was legally insane, and a danger. He needed to be moved into the asylum. Not the prison.

Jonathan had been convincing. He left the courthouse thinking he would go back to his asylum and play with his toys, but that pest of a DA couldn't leave him alone.

"_You really think that a man who butchers people for the mob doesn't belong in jail?"_

_Jonathan continued his gait, rolling his eyes as she spoke. He hated her. He hated Rachel Dawes like he hated the pathetic justice system of Gotham…the system that she and he were a part of. Well…she was more focused on justice. Crane just needed to be convincing in front of a jury._

"_Well I hardly would have testified to that otherwise would I Miss Dawes?"_

_He could sense the woman's hatred for him as she began to question his motives. Again. It was getting quite tiresome. And that voice of hers was like nails scratching on a chalkboard. He found her attractive, but extremely annoying. He would never even dream of a relationship with this woman. Jonathan gave a sigh as she continued to talk about how he had kept another one of Falcone's men out of jail time._

"_The work offered by organized crime must have an attraction to the insane," Jonathan butted in, his voice soft and calm, as if this were some everyday conversation. He continued on his way._

"_Or the corrupt." _

_Jonathan slowed, her words catching his attention. He could practically see her smirk behind him, knowing that he would turn around and defend himself. But Jonathan knew better. Ahead of him stood the figure of her superior, Mr. Finch, the DA._

"_Mr. Finch!" The man's head glanced up at the thin pale man in a fine tailored suit. "I think you should check with Miss Dawes here just what implications your office has authorized her to make." He wanted to cast a look back at her, but restrained himself and hinted at a small smile. "If any."_

_Dawes opened her mouth to retort, but Crane's receding back and her boss's voice quickly kept her quiet. She was good in one sense…at least she knew it was time to keep that big mouth of hers shut._

Jonathan rose, unsteadily, to his feet and shuffled towards the back of the barn. His horse slept idly by, not even bothering to look up as he heard his owner's footsteps. He knew it was only Jonathan and he in the barn.

Jonathan dunked his hands in a bucket, plunging them into the icy water inside. He felt his hair stand on end, awoken by the shock of cold from his hands, and even more-so when he splashed the water on his face.

He hadn't been able to sleep well for the past few nights it seemed. So many memories…haunting his every dream. It was as if his twisted mind had become so entangled, it didn't know when to stop working…turning his time for rest into a struggle to keep dark images and screams out of his head. He would fall asleep with the vision of their eyes…the eyes of those he had hurt since his escape from Arkham. The accusatory glares and horrified looks that swirled around his mind, intermingled with the softly cooed comforts of the Scarecrow.

Jonathan never felt regret for what he had done. He felt confused, and frightened. He recalled the images of childhood…the constant beatings, the verbal and physical abuse he suffered from his mother and her boyfriends, the rejection of his job as a professor…Jonathan slid against the back wall and went limp as he hit the ground.

He wanted the voices out of his head. He didn't want these memories; He didn't want to remember his failure in life, he didn't want the screams and shrieks of fear piercing his dreams. All he wanted was peace and quiet.

_**You'll never get that, Jonathan…you've been very bad. Bad boys don't get what they want. They SUFFER the consequences…**_

Jonathan rolled his head in an effort to disagree. "Haven't I suffered enough? I have no money…no food…I thought taking the job with Ducard and Falcone would keep me protected."

**_They did protect you. You had muscle, courtesy of Falcone. You had supplies, from Ducard. Everything was fine…until you went and blabbed to Falcone about Rachel Dawes. If she hadn't have gotten suspicious, she wouldn't have discovered us._**

And Jonathan wouldn't have gotten sprayed by his own creation. He wouldn't have gone completely insane in the hands of that bat character, and he probably would be back at Arkham now, testing his chemicals on more patients.

Jonathan shook his head, holding it between his palms as he massaged his temples. "No, no, no…no. I would have been caught. Rachel was smart. Gordon was smart. That stupid bat was smart too."

_**But not smarter than us, Jonathan. Not smarter than you.**_

Jonathan closed his eyes. He knew what this was. He was going to have a breakdown. He was physically strained. No food, little supplies, sleeping in the chilled winter air as a storm was just around the corner. Despite the thrill and excitement he got from indulging his passion for fear, it neither keep him warm, nor physically satisfied.

Jonathan clenched his teeth, fighting hard to keep the angry tears from his eyes. He had stopped crying as a little boy. He refused to cry ever again. They taunted him and hurt him and laughed when Jonathan cried. So one day, he just stopped altogether.

Now, however, it seemed even the scarecrow couldn't keep him together. Jonathan rocked back and forth, just like so many of the mental patients he studied. He fiddled with his hair in one hand and chewed his thumb in the other.

_**Jonathan, I will not lose you.**_

"I'm already lost…" he murmured, closing his eyes as he rocked.

_**No…you will not lose this battle. You were a man of such repute. You struck fear into them, Jonathan. Do not let them win. Strike them!**_

"I can't…" Jonathan breathed. "I can't win. Not now. I'm…I'm so hungry. I'm cold…I'm tired. I need…help."

_**I will feed you. I will clothe you. I will help you Jonathan. **_

"HOW!" Jonathan roared, starting to his feet and glaring up into the darkened rafters as if someone were watching him from them. "How can you if you are only a part of me! I…I CREATED you! You aren't even REAL!" Jonathan spun on his feet. "I…You…You're a part of my mind! MY MIND! How the hell will you help me!"

Suddenly, everything fell silent. Jonathan stood in a large patch of light cast from a hole in the roof. He breathed heavily, his breath illuminated by the pale moonlight. He looked around with suspicious blue eyes. It couldn't be that easy, could it? Was he truly rid of his madness?

_**Let me lead you, Jonathan…I will bring you home.**_

Jonathan's eyebrows furrowed into a sort of pathetic look. Was that the truth? Or another fib of the Scarecrow? "Home?"

_**Do what I say…and you will go home. I promise. Food, warmth…I promise you Jonathan.**_

Jonathan pursed his lips and placed a fragile white hand to his pale face. Food. Warmth. Home. He wanted that. No more power struggles. That would wait until he got his strength back.

"Fine." He looked up at the haphazard throne in the middle of the barn as stood like a darkened mess of sticks and wood. "Fine."

-------------------

Bruce Wayne leaned back into his chair as Alfred poured a piping hot kettle of tea into his cup. "Slow night, Master Bruce?"

"Alfred, I've been on this case for weeks now. Two people are dead. One man went insane. I know who this is Alfred."

"And it's driving you mad that you can't do anything about it, isn't that so?"

Bruce rested his chin on his knuckles and closed his eyes. "This is my city. No one strikes fear into my city. Not even the Scarecrow."

Alfred frowned. "How do you know it's the Scarecrow, Master Bruce?"

"It points to Jonathan Crane. Everything." Bruce held up a pad of paper he had been scribbling on. "His mother is murdered. Next, a professor at the college he used to work at is killed, then a former student of his goes insane. Everything ties him to it…I just…I can't tell where he's going to strike next."

Alfred held up the paper and stared at it. "Mother, colleague, student…Master Bruce, he's going in order."

Bruce glanced up as he placed his cup of tea to his lips. "What do you mean?"

"Childhood. Mother. Young adult. Professor and Student. What stage would be next. He can't hardly be more than thirty, could he?"

Bruce blinked, an idea slowly forming in his head. "He's going after people that have hurt him. People came forward saying that while these three victims were good people, all had emotional ties to Crane. His mother was abusive, the professor was a bully, and the student got Crane fired. It's a pattern, Alfred…" And if Crane was going after people who had hurt him…

Bruce blinked, his eyes widening. "Rachel."

"Sir?"

"He's going for Rachel next. Either Rachel, or Batman. I know it, Alfred. I know it!"

* * *

****

**_A/N:_** Personally, my favorite chapter. Sure, Jonathan's a little...nuttier in this part of the story. I hope it's not too much of a stretch. But, I wanted to show how, when broken down and left with nothing, man can truly lose himself. :D I hope you guys got that.

Thanks to those who have reviewed (two people, but, it's a start!), and I hope those of you reading are enjoying the story so far. It makes me heart swell to see those hits getting higher each day. Love you all!

...Amazon...


	7. The Girl

It was late, Rachel thought, as she glanced at the watch on her wrist. Nearly midnight, and she was still at the office. Rachel gave a frustrated sigh, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, and stood from her seat with a stretch.

The office was still and quiet, as most of her co-workers had left early, except for one office beside hers. Rachel poked her head into the dimly lit room and spotted a man in his chair, scribbling madly on some paper.

"Hey, Harvey. Shouldn't you be getting home?"

Harvey Dent, a new attorney in her firm, glanced up from his paper and raised an eyebrow. "No, it's not time to go yet, is it?"

"It's almost midnight."

Harvey blinked and stared at the clock on the wall behind him. "I…I guess I lost track of time. I need to finish some stuff up before I get home though."

"Anything I can help you with? It'll make your work load a whole lot lighter."

Dent gave a small grin and shook his head. "No thanks Dawes. I'll be fine. You should get going though. Gotham streets are no place to be after hours."

"I'm a big girl, Harvey."

Harvey rolled his eyes and shook his head as the young woman glided out of his office and down the hall towards the entrance.

Rachel shifted her purse on her shoulder as she pulled her coat a little tighter around herself. It was cold, and Rachel could see small white flakes slowly making their descent to earth, twirling and dancing on the breeze as they passed through the harsh glare of the yellow streetlamps.

Rachel started down the sidewalk, her arms folded tightly over her chest and her eyes cast to the ground as it made a faint crunching with each step. She had learned to avoid people's eyes, but keep a close tab on them at all times. She had a taser in her purse, and knew a bit about close combat. Well, more like she knew how to claw and scratch and punch like a trapped animal. But people didn't seem to mind her much, and she liked it that way.

Rachel squeaked as she felt her heel snag in a crack in the sidewalk and cursed aloud as she spun around, stumbling backwards. "Stupid shoe!" She snapped, glaring around her to see if anyone had seen her shining moment as a klutz. Satisfied that no one had, she just rolled her eyes and turned to continue walking.

A shadowy alley lay beside her as she walked by, not bothering to give it a second glance. She should have been paying more attention, though, as a hunched figure crept from the darkness as she passed and slowly trailed behind her.

Rachel gave a soft sigh and watched her breath hang before her. But something caught her attention. Something soft, barely audible.

Footsteps.

Rachel slowed her steps and eventually stopped. But the steps behind her didn't. She heard long, drawn out steps, followed by a short one. Another long, another short. Rachel hugged herself tighter and shook her head. "It's just my imagination…" She whispered to herself, not daring to look back. Rachel brought her foot out to take another step just as something cold and damp came over her face. She tried to scream, but there was such an overwhelming, powerful smell that she could barely breathe, let alone call for help. Her heart raced and her eyes rolled as she struggled to see who was holding her. She felt a firm arm wrap around her stomach and start dragging her back. Back to the alley she had just passed. Her mind screamed to fight back, but her body seemed to fall limp in the arms of her attacker.

"Gee, Dawes…not the fighter I thought you were…"

Rachel couldn't recognize the voice. It was just as soft as the footsteps, but scratchy and strained. Rachel's eyes fluttered as she fought hard to stay awake.

"Don't try, Dawes. Give into the sleep…_hush little baby, don't say a word…_"

Rachel felt her body give out and everything went black.

Jonathan Crane grunted, shifting the woman's weight in his twiggy arms and pulled her up a bit more. He looked around carefully and chewed the inside of his cheek. "Where do I bring her?"

_**There's a door behind us…it leads to an empty office building. No one will look there.**_

Jonathan began to drag the woman backwards and scowled. "How did you know about this place?"

**_My, Jonathan…how could you forget?_** Jonathan's eyes narrowed as the voice laughed softly in his head. **_How could you forget?_**

-------------------

Harvey Dent sank into his seat and stared at the papers before him…some long, boring documents, the kinds that he always fell asleep reading. With a small smirk on his face, he picked up a quarter on his desk and frowned at the paper. "Alright…heads, I sign this without reading. Tails, I keep on reading until my brain fries from boredom." With that, the young man tossed the coin into the air and caught it with one hand, then slapped it down on the table. He lifted his palm, hoping it read 'Heads', but gave a loud moan and stared at the eagle on the coin. "Fine. Tails it is."

Harvey reached for his lamp, giving it one twist and winced as more light filled the room. For some reason, he drew his eyes up to the door and suddenly gave a loud gasp. There, nearly filling up the space of the doorway, stood a looming black figure staring at Harvey with dark blue eyes.

Dent's shaky hands reached into the drawer beside him and pulled out a gun, aimed carefully at the intruder.

"Who are you?" He shouted.

The figure didn't budge. "Where is Rachel Dawes?"

"I swear to god I'll shoot if you don't tell me who you are!"

The figure hesitated before taking a cautious step forward. Dent felt the gun slip slightly in his hands, but recovered quickly. "You…You're Batman."

"Where is Rachel Dawes?" Batman repeated, this time a little more forcefully.

Harvey slowly put the gun down on his desk and swallowed. "She…she left, a few minutes ago. Fifteen, maybe twenty…Why?"

Batman didn't reply. He simply turned and disappeared into the shadows of the empty office building.

Harvey ran his hand through his hair and blew out a relieved breath. That was close. He never knew if that bat guy was really a hero or just another nut. He didn't care. All he knew was the bat didn't kill him.

Today, at least.

-------------------

"The king was in his counting house, counting out his money. The queen was in the parlor, eating bread and honey…"

Rachel's eyes fluttered open. She groaned softly and felt her head roll back on her shoulders.

"The maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes, when _down_ came a blackbird and pecked off her nose!"

Rachel jumped as the voice speaking shouted the last phrase before bursting into laughter.

"I always wondered about that song. I hear it was used by Blackbeard to recruit pirates…What do you think, Miss Dawes?"

Rachel glanced down and looked at her arms. They were bound tightly to the rickety wooden chair she sat on. Her legs were tied to the legs of the chair as well, all ropes tight enough to keep her limbs still, but loose enough to allow blood to circulate through her body.

She glanced up to where she had heard the voice and gave a small, muffled noise in the back of her throat. A figure sat in the darkness, knobby knees sticking out on either side of his seated frame. He was playing with something on his lap, and seemed to be humming as he waited for her answer. Rachel only knew it was a he because of the voice she had heard. And now, almost immediately, she could place a face to that voice.

"You want to know what I think? I think you're crazy, Doctor Crane."

Rachel blinked as the figure turned on a small office lamp at his side and she sucked in her breath, her eyes widening. It _was_ Crane. Only…he looked so different. Dangerous. His face was sallow and etched with dark shadows that accentuated his already statuesque features. His blue eyes, eyes she had always looked into with spite and annoyance, were seemingly void of anything human, instead replaced with an animalistic insanity. His body was the epitome of emaciation; he was thinner, he looked taller, and his clothes barely clung to his body. He wasn't the man she knew, or thought she knew. He wasn't the man that she had gone up against countless times in court. Jonathan Crane had changed for the worse.

The young man smiled, his full lips thinning slightly, and gave a dry, raspy chuckle. "Crazy? Miss Dawes, I'm not crazy." He paused, tilting his head away, although he kept eye contact for a mere second. "I'm not crazy…" then returned his gaze to the thing on his lap and began singing another tune. "_Hush_ little baby, don't say a word…mama's gonna buy you a mockin'bird…"

Rachel shifted in her seat and furrowed her brow. "If…if you're not crazy, then why are you singing nursery rhymes?"

Jonathan didn't look up, and neither did he look at all perturbed by her question. "Children sing nursery rhymes all the time. I'm sure even _you_ sang them as a child…so why would my singing make me crazy, Rache? It didn't make _you_ crazy, did it?"

Rachel shook her head stiffly. "No…but I'm twenty-seven years old. And I don't sing little nursery rhymes anymore."

Jonathan snorted and stood. "No wonder you're such a miserable person, Dawes…" He began to walk around her. "You don't realize how charming they can be. They soothe and can put little kids to sleep. It's quite calming…_if that mockin'bird don't sing, mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring_…"

Rachel shuddered as she felt his thin, spidery fingers trail along her shoulders and felt anger rising inside her. "Don't touch me."

Jonathan scoffed and pushed her head forward from behind. "Don't flatter yourself, Dawes. You're nothing I would want to touch anyways. You _disgust_ me."

Rachel blushed brightly in spite of herself, unsure if his comment should be a relief or an insult. Nevertheless, she managed to look up at him as he crossed by her side and gave him a scowl.

"Well, if I disgust you so much, why don't you just let me leave?"

Jonathan turned on his heels, facing her directly with his twiggy arms crossed behind his back. "What? And stop our fun-time?" He said mockingly, cocking his head to the side.

"This isn't fun," Rachel hissed, glowering at him. "This is sick, Crane." Jonathan shrugged and turned his back on her and began to walk back to his spot on the floor. Rachel growled, growing angry at his lack of care and sympathy towards her pain and fear. "I knew you were a nut-job…I'm sorry you didn't get the _chair_ for what you did to the people of Gotham! People died, people went insane!"

Rachel gasped as the skinny pale man came down upon her, stopping just inches away from her face. A twisted smile crossed his lip and sent shivers down Rachel's spine. She never saw him smile before, least of all like this…This smile was different. It wasn't even his.

"I only wish I could have gotten the chair, Rachel. I only wish I could end my misery now. But I'm stuck here. With you. If you ask me," he straightened himself and stared down at her with a superior air, "this punishment is worse than anything after death."

Rachel swallowed hard, staring at him. Her frightened eyes traveled over the young man's face and paused on a small pink scar running along his cheek. Her eyebrows drew together slightly in puzzlement, but as Jonathan noticed her gaze, she quickly turned her eyes elsewhere.

Jonathan smiled lopsidedly and tilted his head. "What is it Rachel? You like my little scar?" The man squatted before her and peered up with hard, cold eyes. "Remember this, Rache?" He lifted his bony fingers to his cheek and traced the shiny pink skin. "I must say, you have excellent aim with that taser of yours. Luckily…" Jonathan produced a small, black, box-like weapon from his coat pocket, "you won't need this anymore." Rachel's breathing quickened as she stared at her taser, which Jonathan was now holding eyelevel with her. "Trust me, Rache…I have better aim…especially since you are a little "tied up" at the moment."

"Please don't…" Rachel murmured, pulling her head back as far as she could from the taser.

"Hmm, I think you're right. This little sissy toy won't get the job done. But this, my dear, will." Rachel stifled a scream as Jonathan took a rusted sickle in his free hand and placed the sharpened blade against her neck.

Rachel shook her head barely and looked horrified. "Don't…you…you can't do this. You can't kill me…"

"And why not?" Jonathan whispered, still holding the weapon tauntingly close. "It would be _so_ easy, and it won't hurt much. I promise…"

Rachel's eyes watered as he slowly pulled the blade away and ran his thumb along it, not caring when it nicked him and caused a little bead of scarlet blood to trickle down his finger. She let out a shaky breath and drew in another equally shaky one. "Crane, don't do this…please…"

Jonathan's eyes lit up as he watched her with maniacal glee. "I never placed you as the type to beg, Dawes. I'm almost ashamed to even think I used to associate myself with you. But…perhaps…yes…" Jonathan slowly placed the weapon down behind him and smirked coyly. "I have better plans for you anyways."

Rachel let out a pent up breath of relief as Jonathan pulled away from her and started to pace the floor, staring at the dust that stirred beneath his feet with each step. Now Rachel was able to take in her surroundings, staring at the various empty, dust-covered desks, some still displaying papers on them. Chairs were toppled over, one wall was missing and the skeletal remains stood out in the shadows. "Where are we? Why did you bring me here?" She breathed, her brown eyes slowly drawing up to the ceiling.

"We're in an old office…I think it was a newspaper office. It's been closed for the better half of 17 years…forced to shut down during the Depression. I brought you here for my own reasons." Jonathan looked over at her blankly. "Why do you ask?"

"I…I'm just curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat, Rache," Jonathan murmured in a sing-song voice. "Actually this place holds a few memories. My memories. You know, I almost died here. Ironic that I brought you here, isn't it?"

Rachel shuddered and felt her lips tremble as she spoke. "What…what do you mean you almost died here?"

Jonathan waved his hand dismissively. "It's nothing important. I was a boy, and this place had just closed down. I was on my way to the library to return one of my books. I got mugged." He cast a look around the room and sighed. "It hasn't changed at all, save for the dust everywhere. The kids who mugged me dragged me in here. They knew people wouldn't hear my screams for help." He spoke as though he were discussing the weather, not a dark memory of childhood trauma. Rachel felt a pang of pity fill her heart, but the pity disappeared as Jonathan's twisted grin returned. "I got away from them, and was running out of this place, and ran across the street. Those idiots followed me. Too bad they didn't look both ways before crossing the street. Busy street, green light…" Jonathan turned to Rachel and grinned wider. "Speed-bumps." Rachel felt a wave of nausea rise in her throat and needed to look away from him to calm her stomach.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. "Don't look so sad, Miss Dawes. They got what they deserved." Rachel felt hot tears sting her eyes and looked down at the floor as they began to fall down her cheek. She was stuck with this madman…she was stuck here with this maniac. Jonathan noticed her tears and laughed coldly. "Aww, Rachel. What? You feel left out after my nice little story? You want something too? Well, I wish to show you a surprise I've been saving. Just. For. _You_."

Rachel jerked her head up and made a small cry as Jonathan drew a silvery aerosol canister from his coat pocket. "I thought you weren't going to kill me…" she whispered.

"I'm not." Jonathan stated simply as he picked up a burlap mask that had fallen to the floor when he had first stood from his spot. "But an old friend of yours wishes to say hi."

The light bulb in Rachel's mind finally snapped on and she began to shake her head madly. "No! _No_! Crane! Doctor Crane, please! Don't!"

Jonathan chuckled and outstretched his arms. "Rachel, dear, believe me…no one can hear you. Please, don't try to scream," he placed a cold pale hand on her warm shivering cheek. "You'll only hurt your voice."

Rachel ignored him and screamed as he slowly pulled his mask down over his face, dropping his glasses to the floor. "NO! Crane, please I beg you! _Please_ don't do this! Don't hurt me!" She began to sob, shaking her head. She knew what this meant. She remembered the last time he had that mask on…she almost died if it wasn't for Batman. "Don't hurt me!"

"_NO!_" Crane suddenly shouted, his face twisting with fury and hatred behind the mask. Every fiber of his being hated her right now. Her…and that pathetic begging of hers. "No, Rachel! You see, I worked hard for what I did. I went through life being stepped on by bigger people. Do you know what it's like to have no home life? No childhood? No friends, money, job?" He drove his spindly finger forward, stabbing her hard in the shoulder. "You try so hard to defend the injustices of this world. Where were _your_ people when _my_ life was spinning out of control? Oh they were around when I was finally succeeding in life…with my experiments…" Jonathan couldn't contain himself as he wrapped his long fingers in her smooth brown hair and yanked down on it tightly. She screamed, more tears pouring down her cheeks as pain seared over her scalp. "Where are they now, Rachel?" He hissed in her ear. "Where are they now when you need help? You are losing this battle, Rachel. You are losing…and I am winning." Rachel sobbed as he breathed on the shell of her ear. She didn't like him so close. She wanted him away from her. She gave another cry as Crane twisted her head upwards and held the canister to her face. Rachel shook with terror as she stared up at Jonathan's masked face. His eyes twinkled with madness, filling with hatred and cruelty she had never seen before. He drew close to her again and placed the grinning mouth of the Scarecrow beside her ear.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't give you my medicine, Dawes…" he purred, his voice harsh and cold and his grip still strong as he held her hair.

Rachel choked as she tried to speak, her voice quivering and soft as she struggled and squirmed in her seat. "I…I'll help. I can…I'll find someone t-to help you, J-Jonathan. P-please…let…let me h-help you…"

Jonathan seemed to ponder this plea for a moment, and Rachel wondered if she had gotten through to the broken man behind the dangerous façade. But Jonathan felt the Scarecrow's grin crawl across his lips. "Wrong answer. I already have someone helping me. Good night Rachel…"

Before she could open her mouth to try again, he pressed the nozzle and released the gas into her face.

-------------------

Batman leapt from rooftop to rooftop, listening carefully to the night chatter of those roaming the streets. People seemed busy, rushing around as usual, maybe more than usual since Christmas was coming just around the corner. It was snowing, and the tracks in the snow made Bruce's quest fruitless. He didn't know where Rachel had gone. She wasn't at her apartment, and she wasn't anywhere along the road, or at the train stations. Bruce had decided to return to her office, hoping to question that Dent character in the building again. Everything around him seemed so normal. But Bruce's gut feeling told him otherwise. Something was wrong…horribly wrong.

Just as Batman prepared to make another leap across the dark chasm of an alleyway, he paused and listened. Screams filled his hearing, startling him from his thoughts. Some people stopped and looked around for the source, but decided to continue walking. No one liked getting involved, especially if someone is screaming.

The caped crusader scaled the brick wall of the alley below him effortlessly and landed in the filthy, narrow lane in silence. He craned his neck every direction, trying to pick up the sounds of the screams to find the source. The special tools in his mask helped greatly and Batman's eyes landed on a thick metal door to his right, the kind used by delivery services to drop off packages. '_No…_' Bruce breathed, his eyes locking on the door as the shrieks grew louder and wilder, then a cold, cruel laughter began to intermingle with it. '_Please let me be wrong…_'

Batman pulled the door open and stole into the building. He followed the cries and made a sharp turn, stopping dead in the doorway and going absolutely cold with horror.

There, standing in the middle of the room, stood a smug-looking Scarecrow, watching as Rachel Dawes writhed in her seat, screaming and racing like a lunatic. She was pulling so hard on her restraints that the were burying themselves into her skin, leaving red rashes on her fair arms.

"Miss Dawes, please keep it down. It's not like I'm killing you. I'm just showing you how well your little idealistic philosophy of life works." Jonathan threw his head back and cackled as Rachel whimpered and writhed more.

That's what made Batman's blood boil. The cloaked man sped forward and grabbed Jonathan by the bottom jaw and snapped it closed. The young man, jarred by the blow, had no time to react and fount himself shoved hard against a wall, still dazed and bewildered. Finally, Jonathan collected his thoughts and stared at Batman in terror as his mask was ripped off his face. "No…you aren't supposed to be here…"

Another shock to his body came as Bruce's meaty fist struck Jonathan's cheek with sickening force. Jonathan slid down the wall and looked terrified. _I thought I was going to be safe! You PROMISED I would be safe!_

_**Promises, promises, Jonathan…don't worry…I'll keep my promise…**_

The dark knight picked Jonathan up from the ground effortlessly and held him against the wall. "What did you _do_ to her!"

Jonathan was silent, staring at the steely blue eyes of Batman. Soon, however, he felt a smile tickle his features, despite the throbbing pain in his jaw. "We were only playing, Batman…"

The thin man grunted as he was pulled towards Batman and thrust against the wall once more. Bruce drew his face close and glowered. "What did you _do_?" He whispered dangerously as Rachel's soft screams turned into mutterings in the background.

Jonathan's blue eyes narrowed and he lowered his head defiantly. "Something that should have been done a long…_long_…time ago." Jonathan glanced over Batman's shoulder and he allowed a small grin to overtake him. "I suggest saving your lady friend again, Batman. She looks a little ill."

Bruce's body heaved with deep breaths. He couldn't leave Jonathan alone, but Rachel was suffering. He had to help her. Begrudgingly, Bruce released his death-grip on Jonathan and let him fall back to the floor. He needed to help Rachel now.

But Jonathan was no fool. He was already on his feet and scrambling out of the room the second Batman wasn't looking. Bruce cursed aloud and reached for his belt. He had kept a dose of anti-toxin ever since Crane had escaped, knowing he would need it one day. He quickly inoculated Rachel, and took off, not waiting for any results. He wouldn't let Crane get away again. Not this time…

Jonathan raced down the halls, pushing his legs to pick up the pace as he heard the flutter of Batman's cape swooping behind him. Jonathan blinked and gave a startled gasp as the hall before him stretched to unrealistic lengths. What was going on?

_**Run, little Scarecrow…the Bat's on your tail…skip along with limbs so frail…**_

Jonathan skidded to a stop as shadows around him grew along the wall and threatened to consume him in their inky blackness.

**_Shadows growing, mind is dying, don't stop, little Scarecrow…you must keep trying…_**

Jonathan threw a look to his side and saw a free-swinging door. With slight desperation, he burst through the doorway and groped along the wall, feeling for a light-switch. He flipped it on and blinked as the fluorescent lights of the old, cobwebbed bathroom stung his eyes. Jonathan stared at the rusty stall doors and then at the main entrance.

With the strength only a man completely out of his mind could possess, Jonathan began pulling and tugging at the stall doors, grunting and biting his lip so hard he was sure he would break the skin. Finally, the door twisted off its rusty hinges and Jonathan fell to the hard tile floor on his back. He had no time to nurse his pain as he started to his feet and placed the metal door against the entrance, wedging it tightly in the small doorway. Jonathan whipped around and looked at the other stalls.

One by one, doors piled atop one another until Jonathan stumbled back and stared at his handiwork. The bat would have a tough time breaking through now.

With a triumphant smile, Jonathan reeled backwards until he hit the far end of the restroom and slid his back along the wall. He slowly fell to the floor and watched the barricaded door with wide eyes, drawing his steepled fingertips to his lips.

* * *

**_A/N_**: Well, I can't say I'm a big Rachel fan (sorry to all you out there who liked her). I lost respect for her once she basically dumped Batman. You just...you just don't _do _that, Rachel.

Anywho, I quite enjoyed this chapter...only because I got to bug Rachel through Crane (evil laughter).

So, please review, and even if you don't, please enjoy this story :) Only a few chapters left until it's done.

...Amazon...


	8. The Bat

Bruce slowed to a stop in front of a door in the shadowy hall. The crevices around the door-frame glowed with an eerie white color, the only indication to Bruce that this was the room he was looking for. He knew the Scarecrow was hiding in there, which was ridiculous—for lack of a better word—since it was a restroom, and he could easily push open the door since there was no lock. Batman placed a black gloved hand against the door and pushed, but nothing happened. He frowned, creasing his rough features, and pushed his hand harder. Still nothing.

"What's wrong with this door?" he asked aloud, not expecting the response he got.

"Having a little trouble, _Batman_? A bathroom door just a _bit_ too complicated for you?"

Bruce went still as the voice inside the room purred at him softly. He scowled harder behind his cowl and slammed a tight fist against the door. "Open up, Crane, or so help me I'll do it myself."

"Well, I don't plan on it. Guess that means you're stuck with the brunt work." Crane drew his knees up to his chin and gave a small, pleased sigh, watching the door with the interest of a curious child as he heard Batman's futile attempts to open the door.

Batman continued to pound against the door until his fists grew sore. He threw a look back at the open doorway spilling golden light onto the floor. Rachel was still in there. She was still sick. Bruce bit his lip and gave the door a final, firm kick. Nothing. Bruce didn't think Crane would be able to leave without him knowing. There were no other exits from a bathroom anyways. With that bit of reassurance, he quickly turned, his cape billowing behind him, and raced back to the room in order to call Alfred. Perhaps the butler could drive here and bring Rachel to the hospital.

-------------------

Jonathan listened as the Bat's footsteps grew fainter. He was leaving? Crane let his head fall back and stared up at the ceiling. His eyes roved over the ceiling tiles with a sort of hunger for a few minutes until he realized…he didn't have his glasses. Jonathan blinked, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palms. He hadn't even noticed his eyesight was blurry. Perhaps the adrenaline and thrill of escape clouded Jonathan's senses. Perhaps the Scarecrow had been able to see past the blurry vision of reality and lead him to his safety. Whatever it was, Jonathan was annoyed that he had forgotten his glasses. He sniffed, wiping his sweaty brow on his sleeve and lifted his eyes to a large blob on the wall behind him. _No,_ he thought to himself, _it's not a blob…focus…_ Jonathan squinted and craned his neck to get a better look. He was right, it wasn't really a blob. It was a large air vent grill. Jonathan winced, trying to focus on the vent.

**_You could fit through there._**

Again, the voice returned. Jonathan frowned. "What?"

_**Just pry off the grill and crawl through. You'll be out of here easily.**_

Now it was telling him what to do? Jonathan shook his head. "What are you talking about? I can't fit through that thing."

**_Yes you can…just tr_**—

Persistent little bugger…wait, what was he thinking? The voice was not even there, and here he was, giving it characteristics? Jonathan gave a sigh of irritation at himself for being no better than the mental patients back at Arkham. "No I can't fit. Look, my body frame is small, but it's still too wide…too angular for it. It's a big vent, but I still can't fit thro—"

_**TRY!**_

Jonathan clutched his ears, squinting as if some screeching noise had been blasted by his head. He stared at the wall opposite him in shock. Sure, his alter ego had yelled at him before. But not like this. No, there was no doubt in his mind now. This voice…this awful, persistent voice was real.

Jonathan blinked and nodded shakily, rising to his feet. "Alright, alright…I'll try. Hold your horses…"

Being a gawky, awkwardly tall young man proved to be useful as Jonathan reached up and wrapped his bony fingers in the metal grill of the vent. He pulled and jerked at the vent, using his foot as extra leverage by pushing it against the wall. He groaned and tugged, but this vent seemed more stubborn than those stall doors had been. He stumbled back a few feet, observing the vent in venomous hatred and clenched his fists at his side.

"This is ridiculous."

_**Jonathan…**_

"Yeah, yeah. I know. 'Try'. It would be a whole lot easier if the stupid thing wasn't bolted to the friggin' WALL!" He shouted, his voice bouncing off the grimy blue tiles lining the walls.

_**Temper, Jonathan…**_

Jonathan bit his tongue hard, ignoring the pain, and closed his eyes. "Yes…I know…temper…" and he continued to work on the vent.

-------------------

"_Pale, dilated pupils…What else is she doing, Master Wayne?_"

"She's convulsing…" Bruce murmured into his communication headset before quietly adding, "and bleeding."

Bruce held the shivering, shaking body of Rachel Dawes in his arms. Blood leaked from the corner of her lips, and her wide, terrified eyes darted in every direction. Bruce brushed some hair from her eyes and gritted his teeth as Alfred delivered the diagnosis.

"_It sounds like an overdose to me, sir._"

He should have known Crane's toxin was different. He didn't have access to the same chemicals as before, and Bruce had just given Rachel more medication that she didn't need. He mentally slapped himself and placed a hand on her forehead.

"_Master Wayne, I believe she needs medical assistance. And not from me. I've not got the experience to treat an overdose._"

"Alfred, I can't leave to get help. Crane is still here…"

"_Then I'll alert the authorities. I'm sure your friend Gordon will be at work. Perhaps they can contact the asylum to come and retrieve Crane._"

Bruce placed Rachel on the ground and watched with a painful expression as she twitched and shuddered on the floor like a fish out of water, even opening her mouth every so often to suck in a deep, ragged breath.

Animosity filled the bat's eyes and a bubbling hatred overtook him. "He won't get away with this, Rachel…" Bruce rose from his spot like a grim shadow and disappeared into the hall once again.

-------------------

Crane grunted as the first of the screws finally popped out of the wall and hit his forehead with a soft _clunk_. He grimaced and placed a hand to his head, then drew it in front of his eyes. A reddish liquid shone off his fingertips, and he cursed under his breath as he continued to tug on the vent.

Jonathan froze as he heard a faint thumping against the door. The bat was back. The skinny man turned and waited with baited breath to see whether the man in black would break down the door.

So far it was just loud noise.

Jonathan began to pull on the vent again, this time a little more frantically. He had to break this thing and somehow climb up the wall to reach his freedom. And that didn't leave a lot of time if the bat broke his barricade.

Batman squared his shoulder and lowered it slightly. He needed to hit it with enough force at the right angle. With a careful eye, and satisfaction with his calculations, Bruce gave a running start and slammed his shoulder into the door.

In the bathroom, Jonathan whipped his head around just as another screw popped out. The stall doors warped under the hit they received, bowing slightly. "No…" Jonathan muttered through his teeth and began shaking the vent grill back and forth violently, a soft squeaking sound the only other noise besides his voice. "No!"

Bruce pulled back again, with more careful aim, and thrust himself against the door.

"Stop it!" Jonathan roared from inside as several of the stall doors broke free of their blockade and were flung at him, hitting the floor with a loud clatter. "Stop ramming my door! Didn't your mother teach you to _knock_!" Jonathan twitched as the third screw struck him above the eye. "Stupid—"

Jonathan was cut off just as another loud crash caught his attention. He knew his barricade had been broken, and didn't need to turn around. He knew the bat was probably pushing his way into the room. So instead of wasting precious time shouting profanities at the Batman, he yanked and tugged and twisted on the vent with all his might, praying it would come loose.

Bruce shouldered his way into the bathroom, looking down at the pile of twisted metal doors at his feet. Farther back stood the gangly figure of Crane, frantically pulling on the grill of an air vent. He was trying to escape. If he got through that vent…Batman would have a hard time finding him quickly.

"Get away from that, Crane!" Batman shouted, pushing as hard as he could against the door until it opened up enough for him to squeeze his upper body through. Flexing his arms, he placed either hand on the door and doorframe, and slowly but surely began to push open the blasted door. He carefully placed his foot on the fallen barricade and struggled to hold open one door while crawling through to enter the restroom.

Crane looked over his shoulder for a second. Wonderful. He was inside. Crane bit his lip harder and held his breath, not daring to release it until the final screw came out.

_Why won't this thing break? WHY WON'T IT BREAK!_

_**Patience Jonathan.**_

_We don't have TIME for patience!_ Jonathan heard the bat slip through the door and closed his eyes. One more tug and it would come free, he hoped. Just one.

Jonathan's arms quivered as he gave the grill one final tug, a grow rumbling in his throat, and was startled when it suddenly came loose. With the reflex of a cat, Jonathan spun around and tossed twisted grill at Batman like a throwing star, laughing when the metal caught the hero in the face.

Jonathan leapt up, his spindly legs scrambling along the slick tile walls as beads of sweat poured down his face. He was doing it. It was working. He _would_ get out.

Bruce grunted as the metal hit his face and felt the sting of a fresh cut on his cheek. Great. He got hit in the face with an old rusty _bathroom_ vent. If he hadn't been so angry, he was sure he would have been disgusted.

But all he was focused on was the long legs poking out of the air vent. He _would not_ get out.

The caped crusader lunged forward and wrapped a large hand around Jonathan's thin, pale ankle. Jonathan cried out, his voice echoing in the metal networking of air ducts, and kicked frantically.

"Let me go you VERMIN!" Jonathan heard a soft thump and felt his heel connect with flesh. He had kicked the bat in the face. "I hope that hurt!" Jonathan cackled, using his long arms to reach out and pull himself farther into the tube. He thought he wouldn't be able to fit through the duct, but it seemed, yet again, that the Scarecrow knew what he was talking about.

Batman, however, had other plans. As soon as Jonathan's heel struck him, he pulled back on the man's ankle, hearing a slight pop when he did so. Jonathan roared with pain and scrambled within the tube, clawing like a wild beast against the smooth metal siding. That was his bad leg, the one that had been injured in his fall from the horse. As he was pulled back, his hand slipped out from under him and his chin hit against the bottom of the metal duct with bone-jarring force, stirring up the dust inside. Almost instantly, he felt another hand grab his loose wrist and, like a wine bottle cork, he was pulled out of the duct.

For an instant, Jonathan was airborne. Light filled his vision as blurry images whizzed by his eyes, useless without his glasses. For a moment, he wondered if he was dead. How did he die? He couldn't have died.

Just then, reality struck Jonathan in a very painful way as he felt his body collide against the bathroom mirror, sending shards of silvery glass spraying everywhere.

Jonathan squalled in pain and felt two strong hands prop him up once again, much to his displeasure. He was in too much pain, and his head pounded is if a stampede were trampling around in his mind. He wanted to just sleep. Jonathan managed to open his sore eyes and looked down, staring at the scratched, bruised, and bleeding figure of Batman.

"I…" Jonathan's voice was weak and tremulous as he licked his full lips, tasting blood. "I feel sick…that wasn't nice."

"I'm not a nice guy. And you deserve worse than a little headache." Bruce hissed, gritting his teeth in hatred. "After what you did to Rachel, you deserve more pain than I can provide."

Jonathan still hadn't been relinquished of the Scarecrow's personality and couldn't help but crack a small, but painful-looking, smile. "Oh? How is the little lady doing?" He leaned forward and sneered. "I'm sure it must have been quite a sight. Her eyes wide with terror, that pretty little face of hers twisted with fear…too bad I missed it…" Batman shoved him further against the wall, using every bit of strength not to kill him then and there. Crane smiled toothily and licked his bloodied lip once more. "Hey, Bats…when the nice men in white coats come for your little girlfriend," he lowered his head slightly, letting the shadows cast by the bright fluorescent lights shroud his features save his shining eyes and pearly smile, "tell them to put her in a cell by mine. I want to hear her screams of fear…they'll put me to sleep, you know…" As he spoke, his thin fingers were slowly making their way to his coat pocket. If he could just reach his fear toxin...

Jonathan yelped as he was suddenly thrown from the counter and to the floor covered with mirror shards, stifling another cry as the broken glass cut into his palms. He grunted and pursed his lips when Batman placed a foot on his back, pushing him down further on the mirror shards.

"You're a monster, Crane," Bruce hissed, his body heaving.

Jonathan said nothing, but let his head rest on a rather large piece of mirror. He closed his eyes, taking in deep breaths as he felt warm blood seep slowly from his wounds. This was it. The bat…the bat would kill him here and now.

_**Jonathan…**_

Jonathan shook his head weakly. _Leave me alone. He's won. Can't you see? You didn't keep your promise…you promised me I would be safe if I went after Dawes. You've had your fun. _

_**Jonathan, open your eyes.**_

Jonathan hesitated. The last thing he wanted to do was see his own death in the pieces of mirror around him displayed hundreds of times over.

But slowly he obliged, just to humor himself.

What he saw when he opened his soulless blue eyes to face the mirror shard caused all color to drain from his face.

He didn't hear the wailing sirens of the approaching police force.

He didn't hear the voice of Lieutenant Gordon as he and his squad burst into the building.

He didn't hear the soft gasps and murmurs of disgust as paramedics went to help Rachel, He didn't hear when the attendants of Arkham entered the building behind the policemen, hurrying to track him down and take custody over him.

All he heard was a dull, empty voice. All he saw were his blue eyes shining in front of him, staring back from the shard of mirror. All he saw was his face covered with the rough burlap mask of the Scarecrow, even though he very well knew his mask was back in the other room

**_Don't worry, Jonathan. Like I said…I always keep my promises._**

* * *

**_A/N_**: Fight scene! Mrow.

Hey, if guys like catfights, aren't girls entitled to like...dogfights? Is that what they're called? Well, that's what I'm calling them.

I never realized that taking my aggression out through fight scenes is quite theraputic. Poor Jonathan, though. He got a bit roughed up. But he's a tough guy. Insane, mentally unstable...but tough.

Just one more chapter until this story is o-v-e-r. Gee, that went by pretty fast. I'm gonna miss writing about the twiggy geeky psychiatrist now :(

So, enjoy the story while it lasts!

...Amazon...


	9. The Madness

**_A/N_**: Well, this is it. Last chapter of this story. I might expand more in a sequal to this story, but for now, I think you guys have suffered enough :)

So, please review if you haven't, even if it's a little blurb like...one word. I'd like to know if you guys liked it and if I should try starting another fic.

Thanks again and I hope you guys like it!

...Amazon...

* * *

Bruce's head hung so low that Alfred had to tap his shoulder to make sure he was awake. "Master Bruce, it's six in the morning. Would you like to stay longer?"

Bruce looked up from his seat and stared across the room at the supine figure of a woman on a hospital bed. Her long brown hair fell around her face, and her eyes fluttered as she slowly rolled her head from side to side.

"You can go home, Alfred. I want to stay."

Alfred shook his head. "No sir, I am staying here. Miss Dawes is an old family friend. I couldn't dream of leaving her here now."

Bruce looked up as another nurse came into the room to check Rachel's vitals. The young woman looked so different with her hair splayed out around her and tubes and wires sticking out from her nose and arms. Whatever Crane had given her was worse than a concentrated dose of his old fear toxin. He probably bought street drugs…Bruce wondered how a man like that could get his hands on the right objects to pull off his crimes, but he had succeeded.

"Is she okay?" Bruce asked quietly as the nurse turned to face him.

"She's suffering from delusions. That's why we're keeping her here overnight. But I doubt the condition will change. We're going to call the director of Arkham in an hour if her condition is the same, or worse." She saw the hurt filling Bruce's eyes and gave a sigh. "If he feels that she is mentally capable of returning to a normal life, then we'll make sure she's fully stabilized and release her." She gave him a kind smile. "Don't worry, she'll be fine."

Bruce watched the woman dolefully as she walked by, but as Alfred cleared his throat pointedly, he quickly looked away.

"At least she was nicer than that last nurse…" Alfred murmured as he glanced over at Bruce. The young man held his head in his hands and let out a soft breath. "What is it, sir?"

"How did I let this happen, Alfred?" He murmured, shaking his head. "I knew…I should have helped her. I should have been there sooner…"

"Master Wayne," Alfred placed a hand on the young man's shoulder and frowned, "you did all you could."

-------------------

It was only a few hours ago. Bruce kept Crane pinned under his foot, refusing to let go. Batman's special equipment picked up the faint noises of Gordon and his men outside, pouring into the office. But he wouldn't be able to focus on them. Suddenly, below him, Crane began to go wild, screaming and clawing at the pieces of mirror he lay on. He was screaming about the Scarecrow.

Bruce, no matter how much he wanted to see that man suffer, had to pull him to his feet to keep him from hurting himself. Crane whipped around and stared at Batman in terror.

"No…god no! Don't let him take me! Don't let him take me! No! _You promised_!"

Bruce stared at the man, bewildered. It was as if the young man were looking right past him…

It wasn't long before Gordon was able to find Batman, what with all the raving and screaming that Crane was doing. The lieutenant pushed the bathroom door open and blinked, staring at the duo inside.

"Batman? …you…you got Crane?"

"Here…" Bruce held the skinny man out by the collar like he would a dog and scowled. "I don't want this guy running around in my city again."

Gordon opened his mouth, still holding a puzzled look on his face, but quickly shook out of his stupor. "Uh, I'll…I'll get the Arkham staff. H-here…" He pulled out his handcuffs and deftly attached one to the sink's pipe, and another around Jonathan's wrist. "I suggest you get out of here. The commissioner's coming, and I'm afraid—"

Bruce frowned harder. "Yeah, I know your boss hates me. I won't get you in trouble, Gordon. Just get rid of this guy for me…"

With that, Batman slipped away into the darkness of the old office. Gordon looked over at the wild-eyed man that clutched the bathroom pipe.

"Don't…don't do it…" Crane sputtered, shivering and bringing his hands around him, holding himself tightly. "Please…don't…"

Some attendees of Arkham slipped into the bathroom, which looked more like a war zone now, and quickly sedated the huddled madman. The two burly orderlies picked up Jonathan, almost surprised by his light weight, and carried him off to the awaiting van outside. Gordon looked around, eyeing each detail in wonder. Blood smeared across the floor, a complete mess wherever he looked, a shattered mirror…whatever had gone on in here…Crane was not willing to go without a fight.

-------------------

Jonathan's stared blankly at the sky above, not even knowing how he was moving, not even caring.

**_Now, Jonathan…that wasn't very nice…you hurt my feelings back there._**

_I'm not listening to you…_

_**Why? What did I do?**_

"You're a LIAR!" Jonathan shrieked, startling the two orderlies. They prepared to give him another shot to calm him, but the young man went limp again and let his head hang back.

_**There you go again…hurting my feelings…**_

_You're have no feelings…and you know it. You promised you'd keep me safe…warm…fed…_

The voice chuckled inside Jonathan's head. **_Oh Jonathan…are you truly so naïve? Tell me, where are we going?_**

Jonathan had to think for a moment. _Arkham._

_**Good boy. And…tell me…is Arkham safe?**_

Jonathan hesitated, furrowing his brow. _I suppose…_

_**Is it warm? Warmer than that ridiculous barn we stayed in?**_

_Yes…_ Jonathan's eyes widened. _Oh no…_

_**And, tell me…they feed you don't they?**_

_Oh no…no, no, no…no! This is NOT what I wanted! NO!_ Jonathan no longer kept the mental struggle within the confines of his mind. "NO! You're twisting my words!_ You're twisting them!_"

He began to writhe in the grip of the two orderlies until he was not-so-gently tossed into the back of the van.

Jonathan contorted his body, his angular limbs sprawled out before him with the graceful pose of a pile of twigs. He let his head rest against the soft padding of the van. Even the van was padded for his safety…

One of the orderlies leapt up into the van and held up a clean straightjacket. "Goin' home again, huh Crane?"

Jonathan looked up at him with bleary eyes and trembled with unfettered rage. "Home?"

The orderly sneered and began to secure Jonathan in the straightjacket. "Home sweet home…"

-------------------

The new director of Arkham was a stocky, middle-aged man. His rounded face was lined with wrinkles, evidence of years of hard work in his field, but was composed with such an air of authority that no one wanted to cross him. His salt-and-pepper hair was tinged yellow, and a pair of wiry glasses rested on his crooked nose. Everything about this man seemed normal. Bruce could trust this man's diagnosis.

"Mr. Wayne, I'm Doctor Roger Adams, director at Arkham Asylum," the older man shook Bruce's hand. It wasn't what Bruce would consider a kind handshake, but it was firm, professional, and cold. It seemed being distant and professional was a requirement over at Arkham.

The older man turned to look at Rachel, whose eyes flickered and moved rapidly behind her lids. Doctor Adams peered over his glasses and cleared his throat. "This is Miss Rachel Dawes, I presume?"

"Yes sir," Bruce replied politely, throwing a look at Alfred, who yawned sleepily beside him. Good old Alfred, faithful to the end.

The doctor hovered over Rachel, studying her small twitches and spasms with interest. Pulling on a pair of gloves, he pulled out a small pocket flashlight and opened Rachel's eyelids, shining the light at her eyes as they darted back and forth. "Hmm," He grabbed a small notebook from his pocket and scribbled illegibly.

Bruce peered over at the man and clenched his jaw. "Is she okay?"

Doctor Adams didn't turn, looking as if Bruce's innocent question were the stupidest, most naïve thing he had ever heard. "Her heart rate has been fluctuating sharply, though it seems her breathing has been stabilized," Adams motioned to the untouched respirator beside the young woman's bed, "but she is still convulsing, and in a completely unbalanced state. So, I'm guessing no. She's not okay."

Bruce bristled at the obvious jab at his intelligence and locked his blue eyes with the older doctor's brown ones as they danced with triumph and turned to look at the girl.

"You say she had delusions? Hallucinations?"

"Yes," Bruce managed to subdue enough venom in his voice to keep it pleasant.

"Could you elaborate?"

Bruce shook his head. "She was screaming…she wasn't saying anything I could understand. Most of the time she was just muttering. Again, I couldn't hear what she said."

Doctor Adams placed his pen back in his pocket and turned to Bruce. "I see. Well, in my professional opinion, I wish to take Miss Dawes under my custody and observe her for at least 24 hours, perhaps more."

"Arkham is an institution for the criminally insane. Rachel is just—"

"Miss Dawes is suffering from hallucinations and severe mental disorders due to the drugs she inhaled." Doctor Adams stiffened and squared his shoulders. "She is a danger to herself, and, perhaps, others."  
Bruce found himself rising to his feet. "Rachel is not insane."

"She will be under our care as of right now."

"She needs to stay in the hospital!" Bruce shouted, but Adams was undeterred.

"We have an excellent medical wing, as well as very up to date machinery and capable doctors. She'll be fine."

Bruce blinked, opening his mouth to protest, but nothing came out.

"Now if you'll excuse me," The doctor stood in the doorway and waved his fingers, commanding someone to come into the room, "I'll have Mr. Kelly here take care of Miss Dawes." Mr. Kelly was a rough, burly-looking man. He looked less like a caretaker at an asylum and more like a mass murderer. Doctor Adams jerked his head at Rachel. "Miss Dawes requires our care. Contact the infirmary and have them prepare a single room. Tell them I'll also need a twenty-five milligram capsule of chlorpromazine waiting for me and—"

"A capsule of what?" Bruce interjected finally, after a numbing silence.

Doctor Adams cast him a side glance and frowned. "Chlorpromazine; an antipsychotic drug…not too strong, but I think your friend needs it."

"She's not _crazy_."

"Mr. Wayne, I hate to sound frank, but _you_ are not a doctor. I know what I'm doing." He practically sneered as he watched the stunned boy billionaire. "Now, I must be leaving. Mr. Kelly will take care of the paperwork for your friend until transportation to Arkham can be arranged." Adams saw the suspicious look in Bruce's eyes and smiled as best he could. "I studied many years and know quite well what I am up against. Good day, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce watched the receding figure of Doctor Adams bitterly and threw a look at Alfred, who shook his head sadly.

"I'm sorry, Master Bruce."

Bruce looked sick and stared at the floor. "I am too, Alfred…"

-------------------

"He's been sitting there for hours, sir…not a single word." A security guard murmured as he pointed a stubby finger at the dim black and white security camera screen.

"Nothing?"

"Won't say a word to nobody. We tried giving him food, wouldn't take it. Dr. Harris went in to try to get some reaction, but the guy didn't bite. Some lawyer came in to talk but…nothing. He's like a toy, just sitting there."

Doctor Adams cleared his throat, focusing on the screen and scratching at his unshaven chin. "Have they given him his medication?"

"Refused to take it."

Adams glared down at the guard as if he were spewing absolute gibberish. "Refused to take it? And this stopped them? Where is Dr. Harris? I don't care if a patient refuses anything. Medication is medication."

Before Adams could set his radar on his younger, less experienced colleague, the door to the office rang with a resounding knock. "Come in."

A nurse cleared her throat and held a clipboard tight against her chest. "Doctor Adams, Miss Rachel Dawes has arrived, she's down in the infirmary." The nurse pursed her lips. "And…she wants to know what's going on."

Adams tilted his head. "She's conscious?"

"Yes sir."

"Well," the doctor picked up a folder off the security guard's desk and nodded to him, "get a hold of Doctor Harris. I wish to speak to him later."

Adams walked down the hall behind the nurse, reading his file along the way. Taking over Arkham was hardly a major transition. He had been selected specifically, since his previous job had been at a mental institution in New York as a head psychologist. He was used to the workings of the psychiatric hospital, but taking over where Doctor Jonathan Crane—better known as patient #52576—had left off would be a challenge. Crane was meticulous with his work, but his impeccable record was riddled with hints of bribery, blackmail, and other seedy underworld workings. Crane, it seemed, was nothing like the saint and deliverer of the mentally ill he portrayed himself to be. He was no better than that Falcone character.

Doctor Adams entered the infirmary to see Rachel Dawes laying flat on her back in a white hospital gown, looking around with wide, frightened eyes.

"Who are you?" She asked hoarsely when her terrified brown eyes landed on the doctor. "Where am I?"

"My name is Doctor Adams, and you, Miss Dawes, are in the infirmary of Arkham Asylum."

Rachel blinked.

"You suffered a total mental breakdown a few hours ago…do you remember anything?"

She blinked again and closed her eyes. No, she didn't remember anything. Her mind was as blank and dark as the van she had been brought over in. Tears began welling up as broken memories struggled to piece themselves together.

"I said, do you remember anything, Miss Dawes?" Adams repeated, looking up from his portfolio.

She pursed her lips as bits and pieces flared up to reveal their clues. A dark alley, a chair, a desk lamp, lots of dust…

"Rachel?" The doctor frowned and placed his folder down. "Miss Dawes?"

A body, thin, pale, something sharp on her throat, something pulling her hair…Rachel's breathing quickened as tears began to pool around her lashes and slide silently down her cheek. A voice, a smile, those eyes…

Rachel gave a ragged gasp and her eyes shot open. "Get…get away…"

Doctor Adams glanced over his shoulder at the young nurse and then back at Rachel. "Excuse me?"

"No!" Rachel sat straight up, her eyes filling with terror. "_NO!_" She screamed and clawed at her own arms frantically, ripping off the wires and tubes in them. She still felt the restraints, the ropes that bound her to the chair. "Get them off me! Get them off me!" She wailed.

"Nurse!" Adams barked at the woman behind him. "Sedative, now! Get Kelly and Danson in here!"

The woman nodded shakily and raced to a drawer filled with syringes.

Rachel finally peeled away her invisible 'restraints' and threw her feet over the side of the bed. "Get away!" She wobbled on her feet like a newborn deer, but that didn't seem to stop her. She stumbled towards Doctor Adams, her hands outstretched like claws and her face twisted with a mixture of horror and hatred.

"NURSE!" Adams roared as Rachel collided with him and clawed at his face, tears falling down her cheeks.

"Take that off! I know! I know who you are! Take off that mask!" She screamed, sobbing. "It's a mask! Take it off! Take off the mask!"

Adams had managed to hold her wrists and held her away from his face. He was stronger than she was, since she was still under effects of the small dosage of medicines given by the hospital.

The nurse rushed over, syringe in hand, and raised it to administer it to Rachel. But the young woman, in her frenzy, loosened an arm and smacked the needle from the nurse's grip.

"No more! No more, god, please stop!" She cried hoarsely just as the infirmary doors opened. Rachel's eyes widened and she leapt off the doctor and raced towards the door, her only escape.

Unfortunately, the two security guards that had been called blocked her exit. Rachel almost squeezed by the surprised guards if they hadn't been standing close to each other.

Each man caught her by her arms and they were almost jerked off balance as tore past them.

Rachel's tears poured down her face and her voice was as broken as her spirit. "Please let me go! I want to go home! Stop! Stop! Let me go home!" She writhed in their arms and dug her bare feet into the cold concrete floors, trying to pull herself free. "It wasn't me, it's not my fault! He did this! I'm not crazy! He did this to me! The monster! The devil!" Rachel felt a sting in her arm and whipped her head around, her brown locks slightly obscuring her face. But there was no mistaking the panic and terror in her eyes. "_THE SCARECROW!_" She screamed at the top of her lungs like a banshee. Her screeching voice bounced off the walls, echoing through nearly every hallway in the building. Even the guards and doctor shivered at the mournful wail she managed to scream out loud.

Just as the words escaped her lips, the powerful sedative began to take effect and she went limp in the arms of the two guards.

Both men looked stunned and turned to their employer. Doctor Adams held a syringe in his hand and breathed heavily.

"Find her a cell in suicide watch."

"Sir? You think she's gonna do something like that to herself?"

The doctor looked down at the young woman's arms where she had clawed at her flesh. Deep, scarlet gashes contrasted with her fair skin. Doctor Adams nodded.

"Better safe than sorry. Nurse, clean her wounds and you two bring her immediately to her cell, is that clear?"

"Yes sir," both men murmured.

Adams grabbed his file and stormed out of the infirmary with a steely, angry look in his eyes. What had set her off? Something about a mask. Hadn't the policemen found a mask at the scene?

He was passing the security guard's booth, not bothering to look up from his folder until he heard a loud tapping. Adams's head snapped up and he glanced up at the guard inside the booth, who was motioning for the doctor to join him.

"Oh wonderful, what is it now?" He sighed and made his way into the booth. "Yes, what is it?"

"Sir, he's talking." The guard pointed at one of the screens and then looked up at the doctor. Adams set his jaw and raced out of the booth.

-------------------

Jonathan sat in the farthest corner of the room, leaning his head against the padded wall and hugging himself tighter.

_Scarecrow…scarecrow…scarecrow…_

**_Yes Jonathan?_** The voice answered sweetly.

Jonathan licked his dry lips and shifted as he drew his legs under him. _You lied to me._

_**No I didn't.**_

_You told me I'd be safe._

_**And you are…**_

_You said I'd be fed._

_**You didn't eat your meal today. That isn't my fault.**_

Jonathan paused in his thoughts, a small twitch shaking his eyebrow. _You said I'd be free._

…**_I never said that._**

_You promised me…and now you broke that._

The Scarecrow fell silent. Jonathan stared at the same spot he had been staring at for the past five hours. At least he thought it was five hours. It could have been more…it could have been less…it still felt like eternity.

Jonathan's face held the spoils of war…scratches along his cheeks and forehead, a split lip, a large bruise along his jaw. The rest of him was just as beat up, but the tight hold of the straightjacket numbed his pain.

Jonathan looked at the plate by his feet. Cold, stale bread, mashed potatoes, and peas. Of course, the orderly sent to feed him had to sit with him and help feed him. He, however, refused to be fed like a child and kept his mouth shut. The orderly gave up and decided to leave the food there in case he wanted it. Jonathan was disgusted.

_This isn't a petting zoo. I want to eat with my own hands, is that so hard to comprehend?_

Jonathan let his head fall forward and closed his eyes. His stomach snarled for food, and his body shivered with the chill in the room. This was his life. He was no longer Jonathan Crane. He was…Scarecrow.

Earlier that day, a man had come to see him. He was dressed in a proper suit and had curly brown hair. He looked incompetent. Jonathan gave a small grin.

He said his name was Harvey Dent. He said he was going to give Jonathan the worst sentence he could imagine for what he had done to Rachel. Jonathan simply stared at him with indifference. Whoever this man thought he was, Jonathan thought otherwise.

So far, that was his only visitor, other than nurses and doctors.

Jonathan sighed again and glanced up to the spot in the ceiling. His life would consist of this…forever. How boring. His night would be filled with visions of his crimes. His mother's constant nagging silenced only by the quick cut of a scythe. The loud guffawing laughter of Professor Hawthorn struck down with the piercing stab of wooden stake. His shame caused by his sudden firing from the college due to that sissy little student Daniel…_Hmph, I'm sure Daniel is enjoying a nice cell here at Arkham somewhere_.

Jonathan let a soft chuckle escape his lips. And now…now Rachel Dawes, the bane of his career here at Arkham…well, she was—

Jonathan's head snapped up as he heard the most piercing scream he had ever heard ring suddenly through the room.

He blinked out of his stupor and listened carefully. Could it…could it be? Jonathan pushed against the wall with his shoulder and shakily rose to his feet. Making his way across the cell, he placed an ear to the door and…smiled. His lips turned up into a sinister grin and a thrill sent his heart racing.

_**She screams our name, Jonathan**_

Jonathan stumbled back from the door and looked around, his eyes darting to and fro until he spotted what he was looking for. The camera. He knew no one was behind the observation window, because the click of his microphone being turned on would have alerted him.

Jonathan grinned at the camera and shook his head.

"Do you hear that? Can't you hear it? Little Rachel Dawes…what have you done to dear little Rachel?"

He waited a moment, watching the camera intently, and heard the click of the microphone. He had a visitor.

Slowly, he turned his head towards the two-way mirror a good distance off the ground. "Rachel…Rachel is screaming." His twisted grin returned. "Is she screaming for me? She remembers me…doesn't she?"

Doctor Adams watched in fascination as Jonathan placidly walked towards the window, keeping his eyes directly on him.

"What is she screaming, doctor? Please tell me." Jonathan was met with silence. He shook his head and chuckled. "No matter…I know what she fears. She fears me…" His eyes empty blue narrowed and he slowly backed up, growing obscured when hair fell in his face. Adams watched as the man sank into the dark corner he was just in, but never let his eyes off the mirror. "She fears me…she fears the Scarecrow. She…**_fears_** the _Scarecrow_…" Jonathan mumbled before slowly returning his eyes to the spot on the ceiling, his smile never fading.

Adams was stunned. The rooms were thick steel rooms, and padded all around with even thicker padding. How had…how had he heard the young woman scream?

If Adams had been able to see Rachel, he would have been even more bewildered…

Rachel Dawes sat in the corner of her cell, her body consumed by her straightjacket that was just a little looser than it would be on any other patient. Her eyes kept watch on the ceiling, and her lips moving soundlessly.

If her microphone were on, the doctor would have been shocked. Not so much by what she said, but…

"_Hush little baby, don't say a word…mama's gonna buy you a mockin'bird…_"

He would be shocked at the fact that Jonathan and she were singing the very same song…at the very same moment.

The Scarecrow…had won.


End file.
